Friday, March 6, 2009
Apparently My Moobs ARE Funny . . .
So, I have a slight confession to make. I'm a boob man. Yep. You read it here first. I, from my earliest pubescent days, have always "fancied" the breast over the thigh, the wing or any other part of the anatomy.
I guess my early obsession, while not leading to hairy palms or blindness DID lead to its own ironic cruelty. My other confession (that will be news to just about no one that really knows me) - I'm a very, very busty man.
That's right! I'm not "proud" of it but - at my heaviest I probably had a set of D-cup boobs that would have made the teenage-Sean pant (well, if they weren't quite as hairy) and as full and ample as they once were they are not just very large sacks of flesh that hang (quite literally) from the middle of my rib cage. I actually measured once (I read in one of Joy's magazines (and this is your "Tip of the Day" for today) that the "ideal" placement for a woman's nipples are halfway between elbow and shoulder with her arms relaxed at her side (go check 'em out for yourselves, ladies) and my nipples are four FULL inches below where they should be.
What does this have to do with the price of tea in China? Nothing.
What does this have to do with a late-on-a-Friday-night blog post? Everything.
It seems, dear reader, that my moobs are HILARIOUS. No. Not to me. To the young woman who checked me out (and by that I mean barcoded my groceries and gave me the cynical and self-amusing up and down, apparently) in Dillon's this evening. Yep. Young Viktoria (not her real name - the wear pseudonyms on their name tags at Dillon's (Tip of the Day II)) thinks my moobs are hilarious. SO funny, in fact, that she could not check me out without laughing. In my face. Barely able to contain herself, she was.
Now I am an insecure man so what makes me so sure it was my moobs that were so funny? TWO things. One, once I got away from the register, I heard Viktoria giggle to the snot-nosed punk on cash register four that my (and I'm quoting here) "t*ts we're freaking her out" and two - after I got out of the line of sight of the teens working the checkouts on a Friday night and in the bathroom near the exit I noticed that, thanks to standing over the cold meat case for twenty minutes looking at vacuum-packed beef, my nipples looked like angry, uneven pencil erasers stuffed inside an olive-green t-shirt.
It's my fault. I lost too much weight too quickly and didn't exercise enough. Wifey has warned me to not wear "unstructured" shirts (like baggy t-shirts) out when it gets chilly (or when standing over meat cases).
Regardless. It's fine. I'm largely over it (sorta') and I am saving my pennies for a serious body lift when the weight and the time are right so - yuck it up, Viktoria. If my God and your God are the same God (and since we are in Kansas they probably are), you'll hopefully have all the kids you can carry and your boobs will look as tortured as mine in fifteen years - and you won't be laughin' then, willya?!?!