Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Being Al Bundy
There is this old truism: men, when given a moment when they think no one is looking, will stick their hands down their pants. As it has been told to me, the most common objective is to attend to a persistent itch or rearrange the deck chairs -- but sometimes, it just feels good to hold on to them. It's relaxing.
Here's a secret folks, the same is true for some women and their boobs. Breasts, too, get itchy. They move around, get pinched in clothing, and require occasional adjustment through the day. And yes, boobs are also fun to hold on to. I'll admit to it. After all, boobs are warm, they're soft, and, when combined with the support of a bra and the right posture, they make for a good shelving. So when I lounge around my house, watching TV or reading the Sunday newspaper, I have the unconscious habit of resting my hand down my shirt. It's hardly sexual. If you saw me, the first image that would come to mind would be of Napoleon.
Unconscious habits, though, are what lead to moron tax.
I was at the office, in a meeting with my coworkers, both male. At some point in the meeting, a difficult question was asked of me and I took a moment to ponder it. As I pondered, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. Distracted, I stuck my hand down my shirt and started rubbing at a patch of sweaty skin into between my breasts. I had just come in from a brisk walk around the office to enjoy the sun and, consequently, had gotten a little humid in my clothes. I wasn't aware of what I was doing until I started to reply to my coworkers and noticed them trying not to stare at my hand plunging up and down my neckline. I stopped mid-stroke and quickly tucked my hand away.
The moron tax here is double-fold. First, there is the ripe embarrassment of having unconsciously fondled myself before my coworkers. Second, and worse, there is the mortifying discovery that I have become one of those women whose breasts have lost all trace of their sacred sexual power and transformed into appendages for which you had to invent some purpose, like pinky toes and second chins. In a year, I'll be one of those women who pay for things by reaching into their cleavage for the money and credit cards they stored there for convenience.
*For the record, the boobs pictured here are not my own. They belong to a famous person who was gracious enough to pose for a photo with me. I included this picture since I think they make for compelling visual aids.