My age naivety strikes again. Summer is upon us, which here means a drastic increase in single soldiers at work.
“…He asked me if I was talking to anyone, and I said no.”
You were literally talking to him and he asked if you were talking to anyone. Obviously my “talking to” is different than yours.
“Sam, are you talking to anyone?!”
“Ladies, I am sitting here talking to you right now!”
“NOOOOOOO! Sam! I saw you talking to Justin this morning!”
What is happening right now!? Why–why am I so old!?
I get it, I do. I’m not so old that I’m that confused (yet). And how is one supposed to differentiate between talking to, and “talking to.” And whatever happened to getting a talking to!? What was once a reprimand is now…I don’t even know what. Something that requires me to giggle and use an excessive amount of rapid-fire eyebrow raising.
Also, while we talk of the awkwardness that is me, my doctor is making me go for a mammogram today, which I’m not feeling on so many levels. First and foremost, I can’t wear deodorant?! Do you want to die?! If I see you before 9am, please turn quickly and RUN!!!
The chances of there being cancer in these boobs is pretty darn slim. For one, I breastfed for nearly 5 straight years. I reduce my friends‘ chances of getting breast cancer, simply by allowing them to breathe the same air as me! Maybe. Probably. I don’t know, but I’m surely not getting it.
Also, my nips may or may not be pierced–ok, they may. My Christmas present, because I’m weird. The every day reminder that my boobs are retired from nourishing babies. Forever. But (in my whiniest, complainy voice), I don’t want to take them out. Because if they’re a pain in my boobs to put back in, I’m going to be even whinier!
I’m only a little salty. And no, that’s not just the sweat.
