What am I trippin’ about? I’m not trippin.’ I just want to know why and I’ll bet you a bag of your favorite chips – Doritos right? – that I’m not the only one whose asking that question and just so I don’t end up standing in front of Judge “Liar, Liar pants on fire,” Judy, the bet is for a 25⊄ bag of sweet and spicy. Ok?
You can sit there looking at me like I’m a 200-piece puzzle if you want to but I saw you at the 4M (Monday Morning Managers Meeting) when you put your hands up to your mouth like you were blocking garlic breath. So all I’m doing is asking out loud what you and a lot of other people are wondering when you get that OMG look on your face. All I want to know is why my eyes are forced to see naked breast. They are everywhere: at the restaurants, on the bus, at the grocery store, at the pre-school parent meeting, in the classroom, at the reception desk. Don’t look? I’m not looking. I am seeing. They’re in my face – the rounds ones, the hanging ones, pointy ones. the tattooed ones, the wrinkled ones. I go into Ms. So and Sos’ office expecting to meet with her. But instead, exposed breasts greet me – she was there too. of course. What do I do? Look at the ceiling? It wasn’t one of those “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by” meetings. So, she could’ve put them away or covered them up or whatever you’re do with almost naked breast that are hanging out in the workplace.
It’s not just me. I got a call from a CEO asking me to do SSD Training. “What’s that?” I asked. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and said, “ I’m trying to be proactive. The entire organization will benefit from this training but only male employees will attend.” “So, I asked again, what’s SSD training?” His response, “See no breast. Say nothing about breasts. Do nothing to Breast.”
I’ve seen an occasional man put his jacket around a woman on the pretense that the room was cold. I’ve heard stories of ushers giving safety pins to women who probably didn’t have a clear understanding of what “Honor the Lord with your substance” means. But, I realized there was more to be seen when four exposed pairs showed up at Daniel’s funeral. Man, I wanted to organize an on-the-spot protest. The breast owners had the nerve to lean over the casket and peer down at the deceased in full view of his wife who was successfully constructing a tower of tear soaked tissue. So, you’re saying he didn’t respect his wife so they didn’t have to? That’s like saying there was no Tuesday last week because you had the flu that day. What? They wanted Daniel to know their votes helped him win the 2013 middle-aged cheaters championship? You mean they thought he was going to thank them by rising up and playing nipple-tickle one last time? During the funeral, I saw women of all ages sneaking glances at them. Some were as distracted as a six- year old with ADHD. Some were hunching each other, shaking their heads and whispering behind their hands. Every man there (except for the dead one) who was with a woman or in the presence of someone who knew his woman sat as if his military commander had called him to attention.
I know you’re not suggesting that I should’ve confronted those women? What would you have me do? Go up to the woman whose exposed breasts could easily be mistaken for overly inflated balloons and say, “Excuse me mam can you let some of the air out of those? Or “your neckline is plunging. Want me to grab it for you?” Or, “I love your dress. Red is my favorite color too. I’ll be glad to hold your purse so you can fold your arms over your chest.” Look, I want answers but I’m not stupid. Besides, it was a solemn occasion. You could’ve said something. You kept looking at the woman with the gold trimmed royal blue half bra. Granted she didn’t look like she was open for conversation but you, Miss Diplomat, was standing across from her before the service started. Who knows, maybe this was her first funeral. If you had reach out to her she might not have gone up to the casket let alone stand there for at least 15 minutes. Frankly, I got scared because she leaned so far over that casket l thought they were going to fall out and disfigure the dead man’s face. I’m glad it didn’t happen. The Preacher said Daniel’s in heaven but whichever direction he went, can you imagine arriving at your eternal home with a battered face and the first words you hear from Peter or Lucifer are, “What happened to you?”
Look, everybody knows where they are, what they look like and what you do with them so why are some women acting like they’re a 21st century innovation second only to the Smart phone? That lady at the funeral – the one with the black empire dress whose quarter bra pushed her breasts up and out- had to know they would prompt someone to shout “3,2,1 Liftoff.” Oh, Please. She’s been alive long enough to vote for a couple of USA presidents so its not like she doesn’t have breast experience. O.k., let’s suppose she didn’t get enough home training, she can see. I could tell that by the way she surveyed the room when she finally sashayed away from the casket. You learn some things by being told, some from reading and quite a bit from observing people you don’t even know. Why else do you think Companies pay millions of dollars to run a 30-second commercial on TV? There are lots of women younger than she who put their breast in a whole bra when they go out in the 9-5 public. Some of them, I’m sure, didn’t have the right amount of home training either, whatever that means.
I don’t care. And while we’re at it, let me put this out there before some smart aleck use it as an excuse to blow me off like I’m a piece of lint. I am not a hater. Haters hate because they want something someone has and think they’ll, for various reasons, never be able to get. And, to tell the truth, I can see why, for instance, people like Daniel and his posse might think I’m a hater. They’ll say the only reason I’m harping (their word) on breasts being out in public with no clothes on is because I’m what’s iknown as flat chested. It’s true. Size-wise, I’m left of 32; cup, probably ‘a” with a couple minuses. Cleavage none. But just because they wouldn’t know the difference between small and none doesn’t make me a hater. Haters can’t tell you why they don’t have whatever it is that they don’t have. I can. Do you know people who turn over every stone; look in every nooks and crannies? Spend hours making sure everything is in order? I ‘m certainly glad the world is gifted with people who do that but I ‘m not one of them. I tend to get things done and move on to something else, thus the story of the development of my breast. Here’s how it went: Pimple. Bump. Hickey. I was 14 years when it started. By 15, the whole process was DCFO (Complete. Done. Finished. Over).
Look, I have no reason to believe that the women for whom the sidewalk is Victoria Secret’s runway are not concerned and caring people who strive to do unto others as they would have others do unto them. So, I am going to assume that they don’t realize that modeling showstoppers on crowded sidewalks such as State Street, Michigan Avenue and Roosevelt Road in the middle of the afternoon is a threat to public safety. People literally knock you off your square because they’re walking and gawking at the same time. Drivers are holding up traffic, blowing their horns and shouting spicy salutations at breast that should only be whispered in the breast owners’ ears. Smartphone photographers abruptly stop right in front of you to take a picture of breasts they don’t even know and every once in a while, a small group of proud breast owners gather right in the middle of the sidewalk or at the corner just when the light is turning green to pose for what we now know is a Selfie.
Visualize walking into a high school and the first thing you see is a pair of “D” cups that look like they’re ready to pop out of this baby pink “V” neck sweater the way bread pops out of a toaster. The woman to whom they are attached is sitting in the hall at a security desk, no less. “Look at that,” you say to the man you’re with. “That’s so and so, he says, “She’s just trying to catch.” To his Daniel-like response you say, “This is a school, not the “SqueezeMe” Sports Bar.” This was one of those high schools where you have to climb Mount Everest type stairs to get from floor to floor. Since high school can accurately be called hormone central, can’t you see some kid walking up the stairs, high fiving about the “D” cups, losing his or her balance, falling down those stairs and having to live the rest of his or her life in a motorized wheel chair?. That’s not likely to happen, you say. Maybe, maybe not but nobody ever thought we’d have to do a partial striptease to get through airport security either.
What do I need to do? Nothing. My breast, such as they are, are not causing people to do a double take while they’re enjoying their coffee and Egg McMuffin before they report to work at 7:30 a.m. I just want us women to wear the appropriate clothes to the appropriate place, at the appropriate time. I’m not talking Mary Poppin either – how about not wearing the after-11 o’clock-Saturday-night clothes to work, church, school, the grocery store and other places where being fully clothed is a reasonable expectation? That is, my friend, not too much to ask. No, I still don’t understand why. But I can’t help wondering what would happen if the “Daniels” let their penises hang out of their fly like the “Danielles” let their breasts push out of their bras?