Now, before I go on, I must at least try and convince you, readers, that I'm not trying to pull off a humble brag here by dressing up compliments about my boobs as my Cross To Bear. I think my boobs are perfectly lovely, I'm awfully fond of them, and as far as I'm concerned they deserve all the compliments they get... which are not actually all that frequent actually, although this may or may not be because I spend much of my time jaunting about with McPhee, whose own rack is, to put it politely, extremely impressive. Bitch has got a great set of cans, is all I'm saying.
But I digress.
But I digress.
The thing that got me thinking was my reaction to the two incidents. The one at the bar, although it made me kinda embarassed and a bit uncomfortable, didn't particularly bother me. The dude was drunk and I was at a crowded bar surrounded by friends so I didn't feel intimidated. I think I smiled, muttered "uh, thanks" and promptly turned bright red.
The second incident, in contrast, really did bother me and make me feel downright... uncomfortable. The work contact in question wasn't a friend of mine - I'd probably only met him once or twice - and I'd never even come close to flirting with him because... ew. But for whatever reason, upon meeting my replacement for the first time and in a professional situation this guy felt completely comfortable talking about my boobs. As far as he knew my replacement, in addition to being a colleague, could also have been my best friend, my boyfriend or my brother. I can only imagine how said colleague, who is lovely and far too sweet for this shit, reacted at the time. Nervous laughter, presumably.
I'm really not sure what point I'm trying to make here: that I feel more comfortable with guys being kinda sleazy to my face than behind my back? Not, um, exactly. That it's strange and kinda fucked up that some dudes think it's perfectly normal to discuss a woman's boobs with one of her colleagues without fear of recrimination just because he's talking to another dude? I... don't know. Maybe. All I know is that my boobs and I feel vaguely hurt and sad and weirded out by the whole thing. Also I'm maybe now going to have to start about investing in a whole bunch of high-necked jumpers and bulky scarves to pad out my work uniform. Boo. Hiss.
N.B: It goes without saying that the woman above, the super cute Kelly Brook, is not me. Nor do my boobs resemble hers. But in a world where most of the women I see in magazines or whatever are super skinny with either no boobs or fake boobs it's sometimes awfully nice to see a hottie cruising around in a dress with a natural pair of big boobs. Um, nice tits, Kelly, I guess is what I'm trying to say.