Yesterday, a coworker came down the hall with a semi-frantic, “Tissue. Kleenex. Does anyone have a Tissue? I need tissue right now!”
Even though I was standing in front of two other people – my manager included – I did what any normal person would have done after hearing a co-worker’s urgent plea… I promptly plunged my right hand down the front of my shirt and felt around in my bra, before blurting out, “No. I’m sorry, I didn’t pack any today.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before everyone lost it and my face flushed red. It seemed like a totally reasonable response knowing what I know about all the things I keep in my bra besides my breasts. But to the outsider, I know it looked like I was stuffing my boobs.
On any given day I carry my cell phone in my right cup with Boop, and my Boob Rock (courtesy of Erisian) in my left cup with Betty to balance out the weight and shape difference from my cell phone. What’s more, just like the Mary Poppins bottomless carpetbag of wonders, I also keep a flash thumb drive, a spare tissue, my gym key (when I’m working out), and my driver’s license and ID and cash when I’m out and don’t have pockets.
I keep expecting one day to reach down the front of my shirt as pull out a standing lamp.
I’ve been told before, that I’m stacked. I nod and smile at the supposed compliment and think to myself, in a society that weighs female beauty very much by the size of breast – I find a little satisfaction in knowing that they think my plethora of hidden goodies gives me a fuller rack. I just have to be careful not to like a guy who is a “boob man” because he’ll be in for a rude awakening when he reaches behind to pop the hooks on my bra and a landslide of cell phones and thumb drives and tissues and keys and money fall out of my chest.
Then again, it would be fun to watch his face.
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