C of Disillusion

Breasts are like a Michelangelo masterpiece. Something compels me to stare in admiration at the fleshy mounds. Like a silent stupor that stills you in front of a great work of art. I experienced that once at the Louvre, when I came across Michelangelo's "Dying Slave". I just stopped, breath abated, absorbing the beauty of his work. Except instead of housed in a gallery of stone and marble, breasts are shrouded in folds of cheap cotton/poly blends. Also, museum-goers generally stop short of woof whistling at a favored work.

Perhaps it's uncharacteristically odd for a female to be intrigued by them. I don't want to poke or prod or anything unseemly. I don't want to "motorboat" or suckle. Just blatantly stare, maybe throw a compliment their way. Occasionally fighting the urge to toss a wadded up straw wrapper between them for a 3-pointer.

If I were to psychoanalyze and try to trace the root of my fascination, I may wind my way back to the halls of 7th grade. 7th grade for a girl is rough. 7th grade for a flat-chested, glasses-wearing Jehovah's witness is rougher. Then throw in one year prior of homeschooling and you've whipped up one socially unsavory student body member who may as well just go ahead, get acne and braces and get it over with.

Each year of life brings new revelations and discoveries. 7th grade was the year for the stinging snap of bras, where these constricting contraptions were like newly found gold in the Klondike. All of a sudden it was a mad rush for the backside, right between the blades.

Being a fan of tormenting visions, I entertained various scenarios, all involving me against a group of leering boys. I'd sit at the lunch table, back against the wall, storming up a list of quick retorts to their teasing jabs. In my case though, the jabs wouldn't come because of the fascinating development occurring beneath the shirt causing them so much confused angst, but due to the lack of. And there it was! The torment of my vision, whereby the jeers and chortles took a turn towards derision once discovered that I was the .9% of those not wearing a bra.

Oh breasts, why doth thou forsake me?

A training bra wouldn't have made things any better; it'd be like having a car with no wheels, just sitting there developing rust on my chest due to non-use. The trainers weren't even pleasing to look at, just matronly swaths of basic white cotton bearing no resemblance to those I saw slung around the house by my mom and sister to dry. Times are a-changing though. Nestled on top of my luggage, while visiting my sister, was a cute little flowery number; I picked it up by the strap, dangling it front of me, confirming it wasn't mine. My 13-year old niece pops her head in. "Oh, that's where my bra went!"

"You better watch it," I tease. "I might just take it."

I fling it at her. "Of course," I smirk. "It wouldn't be big enough anyway so you're off the hook."

She looks over, summing me up. "What size do you wear?"

"34 C." Yah, baby! I resist high-fiving her.

"Oh!" she beams. "We wear the same size!"

Mother fucking chicken. What are we doing to our youth, bombarding them with growth hormones upon growth hormones? And more importantly, why in the hell did I decide to start eating organic?

Larry

One potato, two potato, three potato, four.

This is how my nightmare goes. I am stuck in a cell, peeling endless piles of potatoes for a feast to feed 1,000 homeless. Who are very hungry. The dream ends, I roll myself out of bed and make motions to ready for work, where I'll be stuck in a cell answering endless emails to satiate a 1,000 clients.

Hate my job, Hate my job, Hate my job, four.

I stare out the west window, my feet up on its sill, absorbing the view from three stories up. A seagull soars by, hovers, baring his breast towards me before he swoops up and out of sight. He doesn't even know the word "cell". Well, chances are he doesn't know any words, but that lessens my irritation none.

I hate that fucking seagull.

My mouth holds this sour taste for anything at the moment that seems "free"--sans burden. Sounds like a vacation isle off the coast of Portugal or something. OH yes-- Frank and I just got back from our holiday in Sans Burden...oh? You've never been? You simply must visit sometime! If you can find the time of course... Of course.

Lack of responsibility being the only requirement for personal dislike, babies, kittens and rocks are all equal recipients of my cloudy scowl. I'm perplexed by people who seem to have merriment sweep them through the day, like it's swirling dust at their feet flowing with them from joyous moment to joyous moment.

There's an older man, Larry, who is you might say, one sandwich shy of a picnic. He dons the same stained khakis and a ratty wool sweater every morning I run into him at the coffee shop. An old green Schwinn with baskets carries him through town while he mumbles to himself, a large bulbous helmet strapped under his chin. Right now it's parked out front, no lock, as he sits inside and sips his drink. Larry seems to be doing okay in life, drinking cappuccinos extracted from a artisan copper espresso machine, sitting grinning with foam on his nose while others rush in and out, to and from the office.

When in grade-school, little did I know the answer to the question "what do you want to be when you grow up" was not doctor or president, but Larry.