I feel like every time I write about my body the theme is acceptance of imperfection, or an apologetic declaration of fondness . But this particular post is different. This post is unapologetic...because the honest-to-God truth is that I have fantastic breasts.
(Dad, I am sorry if today is the day you decided to catch up on Out of the Pantry.)
But yeah, they're pretty amazing--and have been since I was about thirteen. And I'm not particularly shy about them. I never went through a phase of embarrassment, never tried to distract from them with baggy clothing or hunched shoulders. I don't put my cleavage on display 24-7, but when I do, I do it with pride.
The thing about having a prominent, noticeable feature is that strangers often have no problem verbalizing their appreciation. In truth, this doesn't really bother me. The sweet girl in the ladies room who tells me, "Wow, you have awesome cleavage!" or the guy at the bar who, after continuously glancing downward while talking to me flusters, "I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted by your, um, chest." I find it complementary and usually just smile and say "thanks!"
But every now and then, something happens that I'm just not quite sure how to handle. One such instance happened a few nights ago, on New Years Eve.
The plan was dinner at James and Michelle's apartment and then a party, the theme of which was Mad Men. I was definitely channeling Joan Holloway in a belted red dress with a predictably deeply-plunging neckline. When I arrived for dinner, James hugged me, looked down, and said, "Well well. It appears the twins are out to play tonight." I smiled and smacked him on the arm.
After cocktails, freshly-cracked crab, black-eyed peas, spring rolls and a truffle oil-balsamic-dressed salad, our group of 8 piled into taxis and headed to our friend Aaron's North Beach apartment for a roof-deck party, complete with a gorgeous view of the midnight fireworks display over the bay. Drinks were flowing, people were laughing, midnight came and went with the usual toasts, hugs and kisses. Then, around 1 AM, a friend whispered in my ear that a beautiful blond woman sitting on a chaise lounge was eyeing me. I glanced in her direction and saw that, not only was she looking right at me, she was grinning. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled back and waved. She beckoned me over with a curling finger and said, "You have amazing breasts."
"Thanks," I replied.
"Do you think there's any way I could motorboat them?"
(If you don't know what motorboating is, go here. Again, Dad, I'm sorry.)
I looked at her in disbelief. I looked back at my friends, all of whom were suddenly paying attention. My friend Steve said, incredulously, "Oh, my God, Gabi, why are you hesitating? Say yes! Come on!" I saw people reach for their cameras. I just stood there silently as my inner horrified feminist debated my inner thrilled exhibitionist.
"Well?" my blond admirer besought. "Can I do it?"
Honestly, my ultimate course of action is obsolete. Feel free to pretend that I did whatever it is you would hope for me (Dad and Steve probably have differing wishes here).
I'm still not quite sure what to make of the experience, other than that it made for a pretty grand entrance into the second decade of this century.