Tonight was practice night for the Sunday morning crew. Stratman is on lead guitar this week. I was standing nearby chatting with him, and suddenly noticed he was looking, um, well, not at my eyes. He looked up quickly with that deer-in-the-headlights look and stammered, "I wasn't looking at your chest! I was just noticing the pattern of flowers on your t-shirt and thinking it reminded me of another shirt I saw someone wearing..." he trailed off.
I wanted to howl with laughter. "Don't worry," I assured him. "There's nothing to see here anyway."
The girls ain't what they once were, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. In fact, it makes me extremely happy to be able to say "Nothing to see here." For years it was not the case, and I was very self-conscious about it. A couple of years ago, however, I had some plastic surgery to take 'em down a few notches, and I'm happy to tell you that I don't have any regrets about it. Not only can I wear normal clothes now, I also don't have the distinct feeling all the time that they're being stared at or that men try to hug me just to, well, get close. In fact, I hardly ever get hugs anymore from other adults, and that's fine with me. I used to squirm to avoid them. Now I don't have to. Or, rather, I don't mind when the occasional person does want to hug me, because I am quite confident it's because they actually care about me.
After Stratman and I both snickered about the "nothing to see here" comment, he said, "You're going to blog about this, aren't you?"
"It's likely," I said. "It's too funny to pass up."
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