At a gorgeous restaurant recently, I was enjoying lunch with some friends. Enroute to the powder room, I ran into a woman I used to work with years ago. Older than me by a decade or so, Mrs. W was an executive at the company. And a great person to work with because she was cutting edge, very intelligent, and not without a little sass. These being attributes I admire.
We chit chat for a several minutes before I step into a stall. When I exit the stall, I am reminded that yes, in fact, she is still cutting edge and sassy. Quite.
As I open the door and step back into the sink area, she says, “ I want to show you something.”
And she turns to me with shirt up and her chest fully exposed. Wait. I’m not Joe Francis.
She says, “ I got implants. What do you think?”
My thoughts form a triad:
1. Would a balcony in New Orleans perhaps be a better setting for this?
2. You must be drunk.
3. And I have no third thought because I am still pondering my first two thoughts.
She is very giddy. Post-divorce, her implants were a small gift to herself. And by small I mean not at all small. She said, "Aren't they great? I am showing everyone."
I applaud liberation and celebration. She, a fan of both as well as imitation. But good for her. Did I need to see them ? I assure you I did not. I am not a prude by any means, by maybe I have a “I don’t need to see the knockers” clause. I would never peg her a conservative but flashing me in a bathroom when I haven't seen her in years was also highly unpredictable. I was happy for her that she was so happy. And they looked like a very well done cosmetic surgery should. The entire conversation occurs with her still defrocked and alternating her gaze between me and the mirror as she admires the surgeon’s handiwork.
Ok, maybe we can work in a little “Button Up” time into our conversation.
And then she says, “They feel completely real. Go ahead, feel them.”
“I think I will pass.”
“You must. How else will you know how real they feel?” she asks.
“I know what real boobs feel like because I have two of my own. Look, I will give mine a quick pat just for the sake of camaraderie.”
She laughs. And with some enthusiasm, gives her a pretty good maul. Reminded me a tiny bit of a kitty with a new toy. Then another patron walks in the bathroom and is a bit confounded like she just walked into The Spearmint Rhino at shift change.
Mrs. W laughs and says, “Oh come in. I am just showing off my new present.” The other patron's level of comfort doesn’t improve by any means. I say, "Well, maybe you can put those big girls under wraps. Because now we are all felt up and no place to go but back to work."
And as much as my portfolio of life experiences lacks the entry “felt up former co-worker in a bathroom” I am glad I opted out. She on the other hand, bounded out of there on cloud nine. Either that, or just significantly air lifted due to new loftiness.