(A “letter” I wrote to some boob-lookers at Maybe Church. I didn’t post it at the time because I wasn’t sure if the boob-lookers were also some of the blog-lookers. Now I just don’t care.)
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Well, this is awkward. I’m all alone in front of a computer, yet I can feel my face burning tomato red because I need to dash off a random note to a couple of anonymous fellows at Maybe Church.
All right.
Here goes:
Fellas, it’s really okay with me if you ignore the boobins on Sunday when I walk by.
Really. It’s okay. I swear.
Please let me share something I’ve discovered that sometimes bothers me but might prove useful to you: They’re still there even if you don’t look at them, so it’s okay if you don’t. What I’m trying to articulate is that they don’t seem to need anyone to validate their existence. They seem to exist just fine apart from any validation. I can give them nary a thought or a glance for days on end and yet, still, they exist. Flourish, even. It’s a real mystery, I tell you. Besides, they really do just sit there. Trust me. I know this stuff firsthand. I’m a bit ashamed to admit this, but over the years, I’ve learned they’re extremely lazy and unmotivated. I’ve known some shiftless lumps in my life, but these babies take the cake. They don’t do dishes or fold laundry or make me a morning cappuccino, so in most ways, they’re pretty unhelpful. Believe me, I’ve tried to motivate them. Once, I even sat down and did that whole “What Color is Your Parachute?” dealio with them, but they only gave smart-alecky answers and we had a big ugly fight. They laughed and laughed when I tried to put them in timeout and one of them swore at me like a sailor. I won’t repeat the epithet here because I’m a delicate flower and my face is already ketchup red. Let me simply say that we didn’t talk for days after that. Basically, they’re disrespectful loafers who really don’t know what they want out of life. Turns out, my chest is a youth hostel and these Betties are permanent residents. They’ve hung around here for so long now that I’m afraid squatter’s rights probably apply.
You know, I wonder if I need to call my lawyer.
Oh, and here’s the other thing. I know they wouldn’t want me to share this — it’s embarrassing to them, but too bad, ya moochers. They are completely agoraphobic. I’m not kidding. They don’t drive or ride a bike or know how to use public transportation. They never leave the house unless I’m with them, schlepping them wherever they want to go, so I never get a break. I’m not kidding. There is never any “me” time where these babies are concerned.
Honestly, fellas, these accessories weren’t my idea and in many ways, they cause me no end of trouble. The good news is that they’re not spilling out all over bloomin’ creation or wandering off anywhere unauthorized by the Orange Vested Parking Gang because I do endeavor to keep them on a pretty short leash. Yes, I know; they are decidedly present. Believe me, I know. Deciding how to cover these babies on a daily basis is a creative endeavor requiring the skills and imagination of a Christo. Corralling these puppies every morning takes a massive feat of personal engineering involving flying buttresses and cantilevers and I don’t even know what those things are, which makes my daily accomplishment all the more impressive.
Maybe you should just praise Jesus for his endless imagination and sense of humor and rejoice that you only know one use for a shoe horn.
That’s right. You heard me.
Now you’ve made me cry, okay?
On one hand, I’m pissed that those creeps made you self-conscious when you were at church (at church! you’re supposed to be SAFE from creepy guys there!)
On the other hand, your description makes me think you could probably give anyone two good reasons to love God’s creation…
😉
roo — Hahahahahaha. That’s true. 😉
As Jerry Seinfeld said, “You don’t stare; it’s like looking at the sun. You’re supposed to just take one peek and then look away!â€
What kind of church is this that make YOU feel uncomfortable with stares (Actually based on your stories, I already know). In my church, you’d be stared back at more more than the woman and be VERY embarrassed.
I’m with JFH – this is SO weird. Like, are there no other um…well-endowed…women in the church? Have the parishioners there never seen such a thing before? I mean, you had clothes on, it’s not like you were naked…Get a life, people.
//They laughed and laughed when I tried to put them in timeout and one of them swore at me like a sailor. //
OK, now THAT’S funny. See what happens when idiots are stupid? They miss out on all the fun stuff.
Man, I know my cousin’s wife has complained that sometimes people talk only to her chest–sounds as if it sucks. It’s one thing to get it from a store clerk (as in the one story my cousin’s wife told me), but from people at church? That must feel awful.
That said, the Christo reference cracked me up. (Thanks to my high school art teacher-nun.)
Tracey, the way you artfully drape humor around what clearly was an unpleasant and awkward experience is a testimony to the depth of your character. I can’t think of another blogger who manages to make me empathize with her pain even while I am laughing at her word choices. Bless you for being exactly who you are, and sharing yourself with us.
NF — /See what happens when idiots are stupid?/
Hahahahahaha. That’s killing me. The smart idiots we can handle; it’s the stupid ones that ruin it for everyone.
Kate P — Hurrah for your teacher-nun! I love Christo and need him to dress me, obviously.
RT — Well, gosh, thank you.
Oh my- you are FUNNY!!
Tracey, you rock.
I “bloomed” at age 8, and spent my life loathing my breasts. Much to my chagrin, they went right on growing, yea, verily, into a G cup. I don’t mean to diminish what happened to you (in church of all places) but it might help to know that sometimes, men can’t help but look. Over the years, I went from walking stoop shouldered and hiding in baggy clothes, to being downright confrontational. “See anything you like? What, were you weaned too early?” In almost all those cases, the men I addressed were mortified- didn’t even realize they were staring. I usually got stammered apologies, and the menfolk in question turned redder than I do.
I think that maybe they’re reacting on some reptilian level beyond their control. I’ve gotten to where I just accept it and deal with it. I figure, really amazing boobs are just like exquisite sunsets. Some kind of natural wonder. The stare-ers are reacting as if they’ve just seen the Grand Canyon, or the Northern Lights. Have some pity- your “natural wonders” have shorted out their higher brain functions and reduced them to gibbering idiocy. They stare, because they’ve lost the power to THINK. 🙂
I can so relate to Nmissi. I wish I could somehow hide the darn things, but THERE they are. I want to be wispy and lithesome (whatever that is) and floaty. These things kinda make me look like a dumpling. Sigh.
Deryn — So do you, my dear. 😉
Nmissi — Hahahahaha, so true. MB calls it “the crocodile brain.”
This is killing me:
/Have some pity- your “natural wonders†have shorted out their higher brain functions and reduced them to gibbering idiocy. They stare, because they’ve lost the power to THINK./
It’s not that I actually mind. I kind of don’t. It’s just that in that atmosphere — a church I no longer attend with super-strict modesty ideas to make sure NO ONE ever lusts, I found their stares, well, against the (silly) rules — and it amused me, really.