I have a bad habit of flashing the neighborhood.
First it was the mailman after I answered the doorbell while
wearing my summer pajamas. Then it was one
of the former coaches while wearing my spring pajamas. This weekend, while trying to tan certain areas
that might need to be more visible than others depending on which dress I pick
for my eldest's wedding in September, I attempt to flash the entire lower end
of School Street. And this time, pajamas
are not an issue.
Look, I have a couple of gown options to wear to this
wedding. I found two dresses on sale,
and I bought them both. While I am still
looking because I also need a dress for my daughter's late fall wedding, I
haven't decided on anything yet. I could
buy another dress that wouldn't require any cleavage tanning contortions. I could also go the easy way and just dust a
little bronzer between the girls.
But that would take all the fun out of the tanning process.
I am extremely fair-skinned.
All someone has to do is whisper the word "sunshine" and my
skin burns. I am an ideal candidate for
skin cancer with all the time I've spent outside with and without
sunscreen. I am, though, a firm believer
in vitamin D, and I have no problems with allowing myself up to an hour a day
of real, honest to goodness, un-SPF sunshine.
Since I have such a rigid time constraint, and since I am
the only one home this weekend, I decide to go old school with a bikini top
that even on a good day tends to slip a little low on the front side from time
to time. It does, however, provide the
best line-less tanning of that infamous "needs-to-be-tanned" cleavage
area. Hoping the mailman doesn't make a
sneak attack, I decide to go for it, and I stretch my bad self across the back
stoop, towel and all, and expose some of the whiter parts of most of my breast
area to the sun.
Naturally, I have to go through the usual contortions: I need water, I forgot my book, I need
different glasses, my phone needs to be charged, etc, so there is a lot of
readjustment of the top and the girls.
Finally, after reaching the 30 minute limit on the front, I lean up
slightly to turn over when… my right side busts out of the bikini top faster
than a breast escaping from a mammogram vise clamp.
As I readjust, because there really isn't any other option
except to put the damn thing back where it came from, I glance around to see
who might be in Boob Radar Range. Well,
there's the entire cemetery up the hill, but I don't think anyone in there
really gives a crap about a little glimpse of pink. Then there's the house with the little kids
and the yard that is high enough to look directly onto my patio, but no one is
out there - thankfully they are all in the pool which is safely out of my site
line. I am low enough on the stoop that
the guys at Elm Street Auto cannot see anything risqué. The mailman isn't anywhere close by (though
he does sneak up on me later when I am fully dressed and sitting in the shade
reading), but the neighbor's window does look ten feet straight down onto my
patio. This means if anyone were to see
my boob, it's the little bastard next door, but he's only five years old. Probably wouldn't recognize a boob if he saw
one, anyway.
I decide to go in and change into a different top. Yes, I need to tan my cleavage (no, not the
entire boob area, so relax there Roberto), and yes, I will probably bring out
the too-small bikini top again this summer, maybe even multiple times, but I'm
going to be a little more cautious and scientific about sun angles and
movement.
Oh, and I won't attempt to sit up. Not quite sure how I'll get up from the
supine position, but I'll figure it out.
Oh, I know. I'll just follow my
boob -- It certainly knows its way around the area from all its exploration,
that's for damn sure.
