I would just like to apologize in advance to my husband, my parents, my in-laws and yes, my illiterate cat, for the following blog entry.
I recently discovered that my boobs, aside from providing buoyancy in the event of a shipwreck and serving as the perfect holding place for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s during "Battlestar" marathons, serve a number of other equally advantageous purposes. And by “equally advantageous purposes,” I of course mean that they’re magical.
I’m not saying they're magical in the sense that they could fly or engage in combat with Gandalf – although how sweet would that be! No, they’re magical in the sense that they can make things happen with no help from me other than simply wearing a low-cut blouse and occasionally leaning over.
Yes, I have discovered – way too late in life, I might add – that complete strangers will do things for me at the drop of a boob. Do I not feel like opening doors on Thursdays? Well, my boobs can take care of that. Choose the right top and guys at the bank are holding doors open for me from 10 yards away. Can’t reach the paper towels at Target? A slight lean to the left, an “I just don’t know what to do” look on my face and bam! There’s a 12-pack of Brawnys in my shopping cart. Have I gone to a meeting unprepared and unable to answer questions with any semblance of rational thought and I’m desperate for no one to notice? Take a break, third button down on my shirt, you’re services will no longer be needed this afternoon!
The sad thing is that if I were not a nerdy woman, I would have been taking advantage of this power for the last 20 years or so instead of just realizing it – oh, I don’t know – last month!
Just think if I’d known about this power in 2000. The girls and I would have stood in front of every voting booth in America, confusing the minds of millions of male voters and swaying the election. President Al Gore would have given my cleavage the Medal of Freedom...and totally checked me out at the presentation. Children (well, Democratic children) would have sung songs about my rack. Actual racks – you know, for drying dishes and such – would have been renamed The Liz-es in my honor. Let’s not even think about how Mount Rushmore would have changed! (Hint: there would have been boobs.)
I’m not going to get crazy with this new-found superpower. Like Superman and Batman, I’m going to conceal the true nature of my boobs’ powers until such times as they are absolutely needed...like, say, at a rodeo when I don’t want to buy my own caramel corn.
Okay, I’m kidding about the rodeo. In all seriousness, though, it’s like discovering that I have the ability to pull a tablecloth out from under a place setting without cracking the china. It’s a cool parlor trick but I’m not going to be doing it all day long. At heart, I’m a repressed Catholic nerd who dresses for comfort not style. Thirty-some years into being me, I don’t see that changing too much.
So my magical boobs and I will bide our time, waiting until the exact moment when they’re needed most. Yes, if I look up into the night sky and see a silhouette of my awesome rack above Gotham City, I will answer the call.