INTROVERTED BREASTS
Are Swinging Breasts as Jarring as Ghosts?
What’s too much breast movement on a walk
I know most of my neighbors — some more intimately than others. I realized this morning, boobs swinging while I walked the dog, I do not mind bumping into women neighbors when I’m not wearing a bra, but with men, it’s a different story.— especially when there are words or images bannered across my chest advertising their coordinates. Some shirts stifle the movements of breasts while others accentuate their pendulum movement.
It’s New Orleans August hot today but I’m in Illinois so there’s no music playing in the streets making the heat sexy. It’s just wet. I’m too busy to be slowed down by this hot soup. My to-dos on my calendar today have concealed any existence of blank paper.
My son just got his booster shot so he’s playing Scarlette O'Hara with his meekness. I can almost imagine him fanning himself and adjusting his shirt hoop. “Mother, if you could just bring me a blanket and some water.”
He’s no Tiny Tim. Tiny Tim got around town fine on his crutch. My son revels in his fragility when given the opportunity. I’d complain, but I know where he got it from. All I gotta do is look in the mirror.
Even though the COVID shot only assaulted my son’s left shoulder, he can barely lift either arm. “Mother, if you could just make me some brioche french toast, I’d be most obliged.”
It’s not even six-thirty and my shirt is already sticking to my armpits and lower back. This is the kind of humidity that got William Hurt in trouble in Body Heat.
Putting on a bra is an extravagance I cannot afford today. My translucent cotton-blend t-shirt contains as much fabric as my skin can handle in this scalding temperature. I don’t own any bras with air conditioners so I’m free-boobing it today. And then there’s the matter of the demanding Petit Prince — “Mother, can you bring me a cool towel for my brow?”
It’s one of those days I dream I lived on open land where I could sit outside in my underwear and t-shirt and watch the dog take a dump from my porch swing. That’s not my life though and the dog needs walking.
I could let her shit in the house, but guess who’d be cleaning up that mess? I hook her leash onto her collar, stuff a couple poop bags in my cutoffs, and head out into the populated streets.
My breasts suddenly feel uncontained and exposed. This is the wrong kind of shirt to wear without a bra. Thin and Like a Virgin written across my girls. Good lord. Who dressed this breastatrophy? My boobs are both sticking to me, swinging and bouncing. Tribreastfecta.
As soon as I see one of my neighbors, I’m in that dream standing in front of a classroom naked. He’s a typical male who’s friendly but would notice my swinging boobs. I pivot. It’s not like he’s gonna grab them but I’m too tired for him to notice them.
Boobs are funny that way. We like to be in control of their audience but it’s not up to us. It’s up to the viewer. It’s also hard not to notice breasts. I notice’m. I don’t look for them, but sometimes, when they’re loose or swinging, my eyes dart in that direction, almost like a survival instinct.
My own quick glances at breasts’ movements remind me of being in a haunted house. Everything is still and then, suddenly, something whizzes past. “What was that?!” I scream to my fellow ghost hunters. “Did you see something move?! Jesus! We gotta get out of here!” That’s boobs for ya.
I see a couple more male neighbors and do my pivot dance. I end up taking the longer route home which offers me more opportunities for the swinging girls to be spotted, but at least it’s strangers.
I know it’s silly, but my boobs are sometimes the most introverted part of me. I’d love to let the girls swing loose and not care who saw, but at 6 a.m, I’m still vulnerable to the elements. Maybe when I’m totally evolved I can take the Scarlett O’Hara approach and say, “Frankly, my boob onlookers, I don’t give a damn.” A girl can dream.
And check out new Breast Stories Writer, Sara Zadrima!
