Ritual

Yep, it’s definitely spring. How am I so sure? I wore a t-shirt today, the first of the season, and just about every person I encountered had a conversation with my breasts instead of my face. And that’s in a shirt that wasn’t at all tight. It’s a yearly occurrence. I’m not sure why but people seem to forget they’re there over the winter, like breasts go into hibernation or something.

I have to admit after all these years of this happening it’s become quite amusing. I was very well behaved this year. I haven’t always been. There have been years when I would stop talking and just stare to see how long it took for whatever, um, gentleman I was speaking with to notice. But as I said, I behaved this year and didn’t intentionally embarrass anyone.

Before you ask, no, I am not posting a picture for you, though I do have one, taken last year after friend and fellow writer, Sommer Marsden commented on how difficult it is to take a good picture of one’s own boobs. With a shirt on! Jeez, minds out of the gutter here please. You’ll have to ask her what sparked that discussion.

Okay so how about you? Any odd traditions you have for knowing when spring begins?

We Interrupt Your Regular Schedule...

...to bring you this important bulletin. I can no longer order delivery from my favorite pizza/sandwich place. Why, you ask? Because, um, well, you see, I sort of flashed the delivery boy. Only half, okay three-quarters of a breast when the corner of the pizza box snagged my shirt but he almost tumbled backwards down the steps.

I suppose it could have been worse. He could have fallen and bashed his head on the cement, needing me to call 911 for assistance and then had to explain what happened. It could have been both boobs. There could have been a parking lot full of people across the street to see me. My neighbors could have stayed outside a few seconds longer to witness my display.

What did I do? I waited until he seemed semi-steady on his feet, asked innocently if he was alright and then closed the door on his gaping expression. Really, what else could I do? I'm going to miss eating from there.

We now resume your regular editing...