This morning’s coffee pot/water cooler conversation with my coworker is one for the books. It went a little something like this:
Her (H): “Hey Kim, how are you this morning?”
Me (M): “I’m doing ok. I am suppressing my desire to punch someone – anyone – in the face.”
H: “Are you taking suggestions?”
M: “No. Remember, the whole “new leaf” thing? I am not supposed to talk bad about anyone.”
H: “What else is going on?”
M: “Not much. My shirt is driving me crazy”, I said while adjusting the front and retying the scarf for the 8th time.
H: “What’s wrong with it?”
M: “This tank top under here looks crooked and I can’t get it to lay right. I’m 100% sure that it’s my weird boobs.”
At that moment, I heard a cough behind me and a man’s voice say, “OK…” as if I had just told him some very bizarre fact about myself. I didn’t need to turn around. I knew it was my boss. I apologized and then started a nervous giggle. I felt I had to speak and said, “It’s just that my shirt isn’t laying right.”
He responded, “I can’t really help you with that.”
My co-worker said, “I’m sure he’s noticed that problem with you before.” I laughed.
It was then that I had a flashback to when my niece was baptized. We were posing for pictures with her and I am her Fairy Godmother. My Brother-in-Law’s brother is her Godfather. We stood next to each other. I was an awkward 23-year-old girl who was not totally OK with her small, uneven breasts. I was wearing a padded bra. He was a handsome 20-something guy who, I admit, I had a small crush on. His elbow brushed up against my boob. “I’m sorry,” he exclaimed. “My elbow brushed up against your bosom.” (Yes, he really said that. He was being funny.)
My mom heard this and announced, “It’s ok! It’s not like they’re real or anything. I. Was. Mortified. I literally ran away crying.
As you can tell, I’ve recovered completely, embracing the fact that my odd shaped, rather small boobs will be WAY perkier than anyone with larger boobs when we’re all in our 60’s and 70’s – even if my shirt doesn’t lay right.