There’s Nothing a Few Boob Jokes Can’t Cure

The subject today is boobs. I imagine I have your attention, or at least half of you. Ask any woman and I bet she has her own back story about her breasts.

When I first wore a bra at the age of thirteen, it was really more a matter of principle than need. Even though I was as flat as a pancake, I was strong enough to perform 20 pull-ups without breaking a sweat for my Physical Education test. By night, I was a competitive gymnast which may have stunted my pubescent growth. It didn’t stop some jerk-head at school from pulling my bra strap for his amusement every time our eyes met. Asshole. I wanted to go home immediately, and curl up and die.

Meanwhile, my younger sister blossomed well ahead of schedule. By the time she was thirteen, she was becoming a beautiful woman, her breasts full, a bra necessary, doing her best to ignore the awkward, furtive glances from our older brothers’ friends. Sure, she got some attention, and I was probably a little jealous.

Fast forward a few years more, and my sister’s breasts grew uncomfortably large, causing her back pain, and making exercise difficult. Buying a bra, a swimsuit, or any clothing really, proved to be an enormous, painstaking chore. I’m more or less happy with mine. So for the record, sensitivity is not lost on me.

Here’s the thing, I had an experience the other day with a woman (male audience, relax)…well, I can’t get my point across without explaining to you that the size of her bosom was phenomenal. By this I mean, they were gargantuan, hard not to notice, a huge rack. You got me? I am not well versed in guessing a woman’s chest size, but I would surmise a K or J cup…triple J perhaps? I actually have no idea. This detail isn’t critical. But I know some of you prefer a visual:

Bra
Expecting some gratuitous Ta-Tas here? Well, you can fantasize. Welcome to the female mind.

As I wandered aimlessly in the local Barnes & Noble, I looked up from a book, and there they were. My eyeballs popped out of their sockets. Soft, flesh pillows spilled out of the top of her silky, red blouse matching the red of her lips, her smile radiant. Bewildered, I cast my eyes downward. I was caught. She caught me staring at her breasts. Focusing from the chin up, I looked at her straight in the eye, offering a casual smile. I had hoped the whole thing went unnoticed. Oh, I think she noticed all right.

She proceeded as follows:

“You know these women who are hired for their big boobs at restaurants,” I was sure she was seething inside. “Well, what about these women who only have one leg?”

Huh?

“They work at I-HOP.*”

Relieved, I had a good laugh. She continued.

“What is the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?”

I shrugged and smiled.

“Snow balls,” she said.

I burst with uncontrollable laughter for some reason. I wanted to give her a high five.

“You needed a good laugh, didn’t you?” Yes, I did. I think she could have told a few more.

I walked away thinking about her brilliant smile, her warm sense of humor, and that she seemed happy in her skin.

Okay, now stop your weeping, and go forth and love yourself. We should all be so lucky.

*A breakfast/pancake house.

photo credit: Kris Kesiak Photography via photopin ccMangiu via photopin cc