Attack of the Bare Boobs
Yesterday was not the first time a woman flashed her boobs at me. And I have never been to New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Nor have I been at the age where it was normal to show your titties for a Gone Wild video.
First time I was “officially” flashed a boob was when my Iranian college roommate’s sister was visiting and she wanted to know “if this is normal”, while lifting her shirt and showing me the hair on her areola.
“Gah! How the hell do I know?! I don’t even look at my own boobs!” I probably replied.
Second time I was “officially” flashed a boob was when my mom’s neighbor (Terry, of Tom and Terry Arbor Mist fame) had her first go-round with cancer. I think this is about 3 years ago. She’d had a lumpectomy and I’d stopped by to bring her flowers.
“Do you want to see my boob?” she asked (please, think French accent when you have Terry’s voice in your head because even though she’s lived in the USofA for over 40 years now, her French accent hasn’t gotten watered down at all.
“No!” I replied, while at the same time she was opening her robe to show me where they’d removed the lump. And I had to pretend like I was interested when really, I just wanted to run out the door and pretend like I’d never come over to see her at all.
Terry was then diagnosed with cancer, again, about a year ago. And this time she had the bilateral mastectomy plus chemo (she’d had radiation the first time). She’s been really good at calling me to see how I’m doing and let me know how she’s doing.
She had reconstructive surgery a few months ago and has implants. They also took pieces from her back and made her areolae. In June she’ll go in for the “nipple” work.
When I got to mom’s house yesterday, Terry was next to mom’s driveway, digging in her garden (obviously, somebody had no lymphnode involvement. stupid lymphnode involvement. hate.) She ran over and we hugged and started to talk.
Which is when she said, “Do you want to see my areola?”
Before I could say yes or no or gotta run, I hear my mom calling me; she had her shirt up and her bra cup down. In my mother’s driveway, not more than six feet from the street (thankfully no cars went by).
I was forced to look at her areola. (Hello Googlers!) And I was forced to fake excitement about the marvelous work her plastic surgeon did. Even though I have no idea how a fake areola is supposed to look. It looked awfully white. Aren’t areola bologna pink? (I never looked at my own, so can’t be sure. ahem.)
“Uh. Wow. That looks…uh” I stumbled.
“And then they’ll take this part and they’ll pinch it and sew a nipple right here” she instructed.
Thankfully her husband (Tom of Tom and Terry Arbor Mist fame) walked up and saved me.
“Terry! Put your boob away! She’s so damned happy about that thing.”