I love walking past tall, attractive men at work and knowing that, particularly from their vantage point, my cleavage is on point today.
There’s a freckle at the top of my right breast. For a long time I referred to it as The Freckle of Good Taste — my shirts would never be low-cut enough to show it.
Yeahhh… Fuck that. Look at my freckle and fear me.
My friends are a good influence, plus I’m old and tired of giving a fuck. My breasts won’t be this lovely forever, I might as well revel.
(I’m all bluster until the creepy dude at work checks out my rack. But even then — he’d be leering at me if I wore a turtleneck. And I can’t with turtlenecks, man. So sayeth the Hedberg: “Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy, all day.”)
I’ll still consult The Freckle for family gatherings, and any time I’m forced to be in a place of worship. God is aware of what my breasts look like, He doesn’t need to see them. (By the way, God is totally proud of my chest, even though pride is a sin. They’re THAT good. Some of His best work.)
I woke up sick, and literally the only thing getting me out of bed is the plans I had that provide higher-than-average odds for meeting and mingling with sexy nerd boys.
Thankfully no one I really want to hang out with would care if I do my hair and put on makeup — just a low-cut shirt should cover it. (Or not, I suppose is the point.)
I’m doing this “creative lady mixer” thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I’d been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because…I don’t want to say I’m “ashamed” of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.
But I don’t know, getting ready this morning, I think there’s something kind of hilarious about “vagina as log flume” coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin’ Lands’ End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I’d like to think you wouldn’t look at me and immediately assume I’m the creator of “my vagina is a log flume.” (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)
“I write a blog about women’s issues.” That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don’t like it, it’s not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let’s do this.
My friends often make fun of me (lovingly, I think…) for my discomfort in showing cleavage. I try to wear clothes that complement my body, but I’m kind of a freak about things being too low-cut, especially at work.
So today I texted a selfie to my mammary managers:
Me: “This is me, uncomfortable with, yet accepting, my office cleavage.”
Friend: “Well done! I’m proud of your acceptance. Consider your cleavage a public service, like an outdoor mural.”
My breasts are basically Banksy.
I just heard my mother in my head telling me my outfit looks “sloppy,” which is a catch-all word she enjoys when a garment displeases her for whatever reason.
But when I thought about why, I realized it’s that my breasts look really prominent and I’m self-conscious.
Whatever, Mom. The Lord done blessed me, and I am merely displaying His work.
Yesterday I went shopping with friends and debated buying a dress:
Me: “It’s not too low-cut? I don’t look trashy?”
Friend: “Not at all. You could wear that to a wedding.”
Me: “I DO have to go to a wedding this summer.”
Friend: “There you go. And if you see an attractive man, you could just be like, ‘Hello, I am a classy lady here to celebrate the sacred union of two lives. And also, here are my breasts.'”
At least I was merely adorably disheveled and visibly fiending for coffee when I encountered an attractive man in the office kitchen first thing this morning. And I smell good, and my cleavage is on point. So I wasn’t the messiest of hot messes.
But we’ll just ignore that my clothes fit weird today and my hair is a Whitesnake video.
I just dripped coffee onto my cleavage, making me infinitely, albeit fleetingly, more appealing to a very specific subset of men.
Texting with a friend who tells me I’m too modest:
Me: “I thought you’d be amused to know my cleavage is making me uncomfortable today (disloyal shirt is shifting), and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Friend: “Think of it as spreading joy to others.”