Chlo popped in for a visit yesterday and before she leaves, she narrows her eyes and says approvingly, “Your boobs look good.”
You must understand that she says it like a dispassionate, professional boob expert (hence my lack of blush) but also in the tone of proprietorship.
Contextual Flashback: Last year, I suddenly became embarrassed by my breasts--kinda like a teenager, only too late. I was only comfortable wearing sports bras--the kind that bind you, preferably in a size too small. So I would wear these really cute summer dresses and a hefty, no-nonsense sports bra would peek out from under the strappy concoction. I even took to rationalizing them as radical and edgy.
But Chlo wasn’t having any of it (neither were Big A and Chelli A--but then who listens to family?). Then in August, she and Tammy couldn’t take it anymore and staged an intervention and Big A gave me bunches of cash to go and buy bras at a special bra place.
Now I wear real bras, but I’ve taken to slouching. Intervention coming soon, no doubt.
_
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