i give you breasts for a day

Inside cold, outside hot. Inside cold, outside hot. Must be summertime in Texas.

My original plan was to move from Texas before the summer. So I escaped this heat. Since that is no longer happening, and my move got bumped until the fall, now I’m just using it as a reminder. “You hate this heat. You won’t have to live in this heat anymore.” It’s like a punishment. I’m hoping it works.

So, yeah, things are starting to wind down around here, just a bit. Still some going strong, and it’s not like my nights are suddenly free, but the performance aspect has quieted. In fact, after tonight, I think I have a full week without a writing project due. That’s a first in a while.

I’m going to my cousin’s wedding. That’s a longer story, I’m sure, but one that will be best after the wedding is over.

Oh, wait. I just realized I have two performances the week after next. Never mind. Take all of that back.

I think I’m kinda free in late July. Maybe.

I know some people feel all refreshed after a vacation and just dive right back into their work and stuff, but I’m just the opposite. I get tired just thinking of going back to work, and once I get there I feel like I’m sorta melting. Like, my muscles get all slack, and I think I might even drool just a bit and I think, “I’m stuck inside this room for eight hours today.” Working at home provides nice distractions, but being in this office all of the time makes me feel the moments in my life slip away. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t notice. But today, after a holiday, I notice. I can feel it.

It’s moments like these that I’m glad I never figured out how to set up that webcam here in my office. I’m listening to Kittie’s “Brackish,” and just flinging my head all around while I type. I’m all mouth-breathing while I chew gum. I’ve got a sweater over my knees, and I keep scratching my nose. Allergies.

I’m wearing my tall shoes today. The ones where people give me a second look and say, “I thought you were shorter,” and then realize that I’m wearing five inch heels. I love these shoes, even though I know I’m going to break my ankle in them one day. But transforming my height like this makes me realize two things. One, this world is made for people about five inches taller than I am. Two, I’m used to my body the way it is now.

Take breasts, for instance. I’m used to having them. But if one day you woke up and had them when you’re used to not, your life would be very different:

Your shoulders would hunch inward, just slightly. A habit from trying to make your chest look smaller while you were growing up and you were embarrassed to have people stare at you.

The seatbelt never stays across your chest. Rather, it slides up, and sometimes goes around your neck if you aren’t careful. You are terrified that one day you will be decapitated in an auto accident because of your 34D’s.

The cuter the T-shirt, the greater the chances that it will not fit you. If it does fit in the arms and length, the logo on the front will be stretched so tight across your chest that you look obscene.

The new strappy/backless fad? Forget it. Where are you gonna be seen without a bra? Exactly. There’s no way. Stick to your guns and create a new fad with stretched-out obscene t-shirts. At least you don’t have to defy gravity to pull off that look. There isn’t a strappy thing around that you’re gonna be able to wear, so just forget it.

While you’re at it, you can pretty much forget swimsuits, as well. They don’t make any that fit you while holding you in. You’re buying separates forever.

When you’re cold, everyone is going to know. They won’t tell you that you’re nipping, but rather they will just enjoy the little free show you’re putting on from them. You might notice yourself, however, when you scratch your arm through your t-shirt. Again, the hunch will develop in time.

Your mother will talk about your chest more than your career.

People will “accidentally” brush into you. They like to do this at bars, in tight hallways, on buses. They will be all “excuse me,” but raise or lower their arms so that they brush into your breasts. They may even do the hard-shove that presses their chest against yours. They won’t thank you for it, either.

Mardi Gras. You are a bead magnet. Live it up.

Running. No. No running. Not gonna do that. Ever. Nope. Invest in a sports bra. Use the elliptical trainer, running machine, or stairmaster.

The sight of speed bumps on the road may bring tears to your eyes.

Never close a hardcover book too quickly. You will get a nipple stuck in there.

Babies grab your breasts. They don’t know. It’s just when someone makes the, “He’s looking for lunch!” joke that you’re gonna have to roll your eyes.

There will be lovers that will try and name them. Don’t let them. Keep your dignity. Maybe one great name like “Fantasia” or whatever. But not Bert and Ernie. Pooh and Tigger. Lefty and Lopsy. Fuck that shit.

People try and tell you that you’re only pretty because of them, and that one day “when those things fall” they’re gonna be so happy that you’ve been ruined.

Bras. All the time. Constantly. Underwire. No frilly-soft-lacy-pretty things. Industrial strength. Straps an inch wide. You look like a 1950’s Nurse that’s into S&M.

They itch. Once a month, they start itching like a motherfucker. You will find yourself leaning over your desk and rubbing your chest against the edge so it looks like you’re just sort of grooving. You will find out how to make your forearms scratch things. You will look like you’re fiddling with your brastrap. Sometimes you will just close the door and scratch away. The itching is terrible. And when it first starts happening when you are young, your mother will tell you it’s because they are growing. When it’s still happening at twenty-five, it’s okay to panic, just a little.

Women outwardly hate you because of your chest. Even your best friends.

There will be lines you can break, drinks that will be free, things that you can have, tickets you might get out of.

But there will also be friendships never had, clothes never worn, sports never played, and pictures ripped to shreds in agony.

Your back hurts. Just, all the time. Constant state of hurt.

You have a terrible fear of catching a football. It is completely understandable.

New boyfriends won’t know what to do with them. They opt for a mix between lifting and lowering them, and just licking all over the place, hoping they hit a spot you like.

Sometimes you accidentally drop food down there, like popcorn or ice. People think that’s hysterical. You are a walking Benny Hill sketch.

Sweat. It’s nasty.

Sometimes you’ll lean over a table to get the salt and you end up dipping your breast in someone’s ketchup on the table. Yes, you’ll be mortified. No, you probably couldn’t have avoided it.

You may catch yourself leaning on a table, resting your breasts and only your breasts on it. Stop. You look obnoxious. I know you didn’t realize it. It just happens, sometimes.

Find yourself a period play and act the shit out of it. May I suggest Dangerous Liaisons?