Big boobs, or the attack of the sweater puppy
Boobs are fantastic, frisky, sweater puppies looking for a home. They can be referred to as bosoms, chi-chis, ta-tas, cans, Winnebegos, and Cha-chas. They are hooters on some women, mosquito bites on others. They are milk machines when one is young and divining rods when old.
With all those names, let it be known that “Big-Ones” (and I do mean natural ones) have their own gravitational pull.
First, it’s hard to look away from really large ones. They just seem to pull the eye to them. You can’t look away. It’s like a freak accident or a worm hole on Star Trek. You have no power over them.
Big ones, if you play softball, can function as a third hand. You can catch a ball with them and use your glove to trap it.
Find the right brassiere and they can hold a drink or dagger.
When mine used to be small, I didn’t appreciate the freedom of the small rack. Until I felt the mumbley, tumbley assault of the big rack. It happened today.
Here’s the scenario: two days, two different bras, two first-degree boob assaults.
First, one of my closest BFFs gave me three bras from that shop with the pink striped boxes. I did yard work wearing the black one under my tank top. I leaned forward on my hillside and, snap, thwack, ieieieieieieie. The strap gave way and out came Shamu roaming free from the shackles of “Memory Fit” material. The strap flew forward and twanged out of the shirt. My neighbor’s eyes popped out. For a man, it was probably a dream come true. I was assaulted. I could have been blinded. I ditched that thing in the house and swore off using it ever again.
The next day, I drove 150 miles to meet my brother and didn’t stop to pee. When I parked in Gilroy, a lady said that the bathroom was at the end of the building and sent me on a snipe hunt through the Gilroy Shopping Outlets. I had my keys in hand and walked past eleven stores. At the eleventh store, I asked a clerk where the bathroom was. He pointed in the direction of where I had just been. I turned around, and snap, thwack, ieieieieieiei, the strap broke on the back and flung forward, over the shoulder as the boulder, sweater puppy, chi-chi, momma-can was set free.
It was Free Willy. I heard the music in my head.
My boob wobbled and shook with every step. I had no purse to hold on one side. It was just one contained and one running free at last.
It was rhythm; it was blues. It was was “Bobbida, bobbida, bobbida, bobbida” all the way past ten crowded stores to get to where I started. Each person I passed was mesmerized by the gravitational pull.
Even I could hardly look away when I glanced at my reflection in the storefront glass. My boob called for so much attention, I think it might want its own reality TV show. And it was so mesmerizing I think it should have one!
I fixed it when I finally found the ladies room. I still had a meet-up with my brother, and some serious things to talk about besides Shamu, Free Willy, or the sweater puppies wrestling in my shirt.