Breasts are a most useful tool. Why else would I bare cleavage in my place of business if it weren’t doing something for me? Unfortunately, there are days when I debate only wearing turtlenecks again. Thursday was one of those days.
I had a lease signing and a few showings, so I decided on an outfit that would leave them with a favorable impression of our company. (Fuck off. Creating an association between boobs and your business is the best marketing campaign ever.) So I dressed in a simple blouse with a v-neck and slacks. It was tasteful, but there was definitely a little cleavage peeking out.
During lunch, I skipped off to rub a few errands. Shopko, the most ghetto department store since Kmart, was having a fire sale on glass food storage containers, and I’m one of those lame practical people who pack leftovers for lunch. There is nothing worse than reheating spaghetti in plastic Tupperware, so glass is a must. Anyhoo, I got 2 sets and then saw a set of 3 shiny new cookie sheets for $6 and decided that my 5 year old set had to go, so I stopped to grab some of those too.
In the process of trying to juggle 2 boxes of moderately heavy glass containers and metal cookie sheets, my v-neck dipped a little lower than even a prostitute would consider decent. It was during this shuffle that a middle-aged woman was walking by the aisle. This woman suddenly did a double take while walking past turned around and insisted on helping me by loading my arms with boxes. Never did she take her eyes off my cleavage, and in the process of stacking these boxes, she made “incidental” contact with my right breast.
And by incidental, I mean “HONK”.
She wore a ring on her left ring finger, so either she’s in a domestic partnership, or that is one confused straight woman.
Then, during my last appointment of the day, I was showing a 2 bedroom to some current tenants who live in a one bedroom, but had twin one year-old girls and need more space. As they were putting their shoes on, one of the girls toddled over to me and demanded to be picked up. I have never met this kid in my life, but she was cute, so I obliged. As soon as I did, she tried to latch onto my left breast like a squirmy little tit leech. Mom (who doesn’t have much in the way of mammaries) and dad were laughing as I’m trying to separate myself from the hoover child, while exclaiming, “Whoa, kid. Those ain’t loaded.”
So after a day of pseudo-sexual assault, Ken thought it would be a good idea to go to the gym. Of course, that pansy goes and sits on an exercise bike while I lift weights. Now I’m sore from the waist up. So, I went to Target at lunch to get a yoga DVD hoping that I can stretch the soreness out before my next upper body workout. Having accomplished my goal, I got in the car. As I was reaching around to grab my seatbelt, I got the most intense Charlie horse cramp under my left shoulder blade. And in my right boob. Simultaneously.
So I’m sitting in the car thrashing around, reaching over my shoulder with one hand while rubbing my boob with the other, when a mom and her 2 kids walked to the car next to mine, caught a glimpse of my unorthodox aerobics, and glared at me like I was the worst person in the world.
Apparently, I managed to achieve a look that was somewhere between grand mal seizure and frenzied groping.
The shitter of it is that I’m going to have to stick with this crackpot gym routine if I ever expect to make these troublemakers smaller, but in the interim, I have some advice for everyone; male or female, young and old: