Boobs
I tried to think of another title but this one is just about boobs
My daughter gave me a shirt that she no longer wanted. It’s a tissue thin cotton tee, sliding off the shoulders and short at the waist. The odd print mess is an alarming color combo of purple, orange, brown and white. It’s not a shirt I would ever select, aesthetically, but it has become a favorite because it’s so comfortable. The fabric and drape is a loose whisper that feels a breath away from my naked self, which is perfection on a hot day. The fact of my breasts makes it problematic in public, though, and I feel the need for a bra or a sculpting tank.
This is my fury.
On the first warm day of the season, I spend hours clearing brush in my yard, wearing a corset-like sports bra under my tee. It’s wildly uncomfortable, itchy and tight, a sweaty constraint. When I get back in the house, I rip it off in a frenzy. Why do I wear this torturous garment in my own yard? I don’t care what my family thinks, they’ve seen it all before.
It’s because of my horrible neighbor.
Jimmy has opinions about my boobs. I’ve never heard them, thank god, but I can tell by the way he has stared, gape-mouthed and entirely too close, at my chest. It’s a regular chest, medium-sized, always clothed modestly in his presence, but he is creepy and…
