My boobs

Today we’re going to talk about boobs. My boobs to be exact. I’ve got to be honest and say that I could do without the boobs. Not that they are very big, but they are annoying. Having them removed has crossed my mind on several occasions but it just seems like too much effort so I can never really work up the umph to seriously explore the option. It’s probably a good thing I’m not really Transgendered since obviously there is a laziness limit involved which I would exceed.

The point here is that I really don’t like my boobs. Oh, and I never wear a bra (sorry Salena) even though most of the free world would agree that I probably should. The thing is that I am right in the middle of a ten-year gravity-assisted plan that involves eventually being able to tuck those puppies right into my belt. That’s the goal anyway.

But in the meantime there can be boob-related problems. Like the day I got out of the truck in Holbrook, AZ to get fuel. It was incredibly windy and as I stepped out onto the running board, my t-shirt flew up around my neck and just sort of stuck there. I was in the process of stepping down so both my hands were busy keeping me from busting my ass by falling off the running board. There the shirt flapped in the wind. And when I finally got it shoved back down there were the four or five guys that were fueling standing around with their mouths hanging open. I really felt badly for them. I briefly considered going around to each of them, handing each of them a ten dollar bill, and saying, “I sure am sorry you had to see that, Sir.” But in the end I just decided to plow ahead with the fueling as if nothing had happened. Stupid boobs… all hanging out there like “look at me… hey you… over there… look over here!”

I will admit that boobs can come in handy on extremely rare occasions, and one of those happened the other night. We were in Virginia heading toward Baltimore around 23:00 local time. I needed to empty the porta-pottie so I pulled into that little rest area there in Virginia right before you get to DC. Obviously, as any trucker can instantly tell you, there were no truck parking spaces so I pulled around into the car side. I pulled ahead to the end of the car side and another truck pulled in right behind me. That particular rest area is so small that between the two of us we were pretty much taking up the entire car section. I put the flashers on, grabbed the porta-pottie, and headed for the building. The other trucker jumped out of his truck and we met there at the sidewalk with a third guy who had been standing there when we pulled in.

Third guy who turned out to be Virginia Highway Patrol: “Boys… I can’t have you all parking there.”

Other trucker waving around an empty gallon jug: “I just need to get some water, Sir.”

Me trying to wave around a 45 pound porta-pottie: “I just need to empty this, Sir, then I’ll be out of here right away.”

Highway Patrol drawling: “Well… I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do… I’m gonna go back in my office back there and I’m gonna look for my ticket book on my desk. If you two are still here when I find that book, I’m gonna write you both tickets. But my desk is kinda messy and it might take me a minute to find that there ticket book. If you’re gone before I find it I’m gonna consider this a no harm-no foul sort of situation. Understand?”

Both guilty truckers in unison as we raced off toward our respective restrooms: “Yes, Sir.”

As we got close to the building, Other Trucker veered off to the right and I turned left. Other Trucker entered the men’s room and I was only about three steps away from the women’s restroom when this old caretaker farther back in the building started yelling at me, “Sir… Sir!”

I thought, “Crap he thinks I’m a dude going in the women’s restroom” which happens fairly often. I think I’ve mentioned elsewhere that I am a pretty Butch woman, and I get “Sir” just as often as “Ma’am” when I’m first meeting a stranger. From a distance people often think I’m heading into or out of the wrong restroom until they get a close-up look at me. Then it becomes obvious I’m a woman.

Ordinarily I would have politely gone over to the old guy and spoke to him or asked him a question, and he would have realized his mistake, and he would have said something silly to cover his error like, “I was trying to get that man over there’s attention cause the men’s room floor is wet… how are you tonight, Ma’am?” And I would have said, “Just fine, thanks,” and gone on about my life. But tonight I didn’t have time for all that polite crap what with restless Virginia Highway Patrol guy just standing out there on the sidewalk staring at my illegally-parked truck and all.

Insta-conference up in the head where Big Brain said, “I submit that these are desperate times calling for desperate measures.” Little Brain and I quickly agreed and Big Brain said, “Cool, I’ll take it from here.” Next thing I know — without breaking stride — I reached up, grabbed a handful of boob through my t-shirt and started waving it all around toward the old caretaker guy like a burrito you’re trying to get someone to take a bite of against their will. Well… that sure did the trick. He shut up and immediately went back in his little office and closed the door.

I emptied the porta-pottie, got back in the truck, and got the hell out of there ticket-free. Who would have thought that saggy boob number two would ever save the day? Made me kinda glad I keep them around.