I’m flat. A-cup. But the girls work. They’ve nursed three kids and they keep my husband and me happy. And while they might not be Hollywood quality or quantity, they are mine. Mine. Should I say it again? Mine.
Recently, on a trip to the Sonora Desert Museum in Tucson, a man might or might not have snapped a picture of my cleavage (or lack of it).
It went like this: We were at the Raptor Free Flight show standing in a crowd of several hundred people while the red tailed hawk, a barn owl and several other birds of prey swooped directly over our heads and their trainers educated us. Cool! But sunny also. So, while I was bent over applying sunscreen to the kids, my husband suddenly leaned over, “Did you see that? I think a guy just took a picture of your cleavage.”
“What? Who?” I was shocked.
“You can’t see him now. He walked farther into the crowd, but I’m watching for him.”
Needless to say, I quit watching for soaring birds and immediately went on perv-alert in the crowd. But I couldn’t spot anyone acting inappropriately. “Which guy is it?” I pestered my husband.
“Don’t worry, I’m watching for him,” he assured me. “But I’m not 100% sure. He had his camera pointed in your direction, and I heard it click, but I just don’t know.”
So we watched and waited. And we thought about it as we walked among the exhibits. The river otter rolled in amazing flips right in front of the glass for the kids. Three skunks were playing and cuddling in their cave and since my youngest can’t say his “S” sound yet, it is really cute when he offers advice, “Never nuggle a nunk.” It should have been a great carefree day, but my husband and I both had this guy in our minds.
“OK, I have a plan,” I told him. “When you see him, I’ll go up to him and tell him I saw him taking a lot of bird pictures at the raptor show and ask if I can see them on his camera. Then if he doesn’t let me, I’ll know he really did it and we can figure out what to do then.”
“That won’t work,” my husband said, “I saw him change his film. He had old school real film.” Gives that whole Duran Duran song, Girls on Film a new meaning.
“Great, what are we going to do? If we tell security, it will probably be some tiny gray-haired retired volunteer.”
“I really just want to kick his ass, but I don’t know if he deserves it or not,” he said.
At this point you probably want to know what I was wearing. Just a plain v-neck t-shirt. Not low cut, not a tank top, just a v-neck t-shirt. But in a bent-over-sunscreen-applying position it hangs down a bit and if someone were at the right angle, the girls are there. Oh yeah, I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror to see what he might have seen.
And then, outside the Small Bird Aviary, we saw him. “There he is,” my husband pointed. And we both froze in observation.
This guy was mid-20s, obviously with a girlfriend and two other couples and they were all speaking French.
We didn’t know what to do.
So we did nothing. I guess doing nothing was a choice we made, but the other choices seemed way to much trouble.
Did it make me feel better he was French? Maybe, many French women go topless on their beaches, so maybe breasts are not such a privacy deal there. Did it make me feel better he was with a group? Maybe, not like he was the creepy single guy that kept showing up during kids’ free swim at the pool I once lifeguarded at – we did call the cops on that guy. Did it make me feel better that he was using real film instead of a digital camera? Maybe, it would probably take at least 24 hours before my cleavage appeared on youtube.
But probably the biggest reason, we did nothing: we were on vacation. We didn’t want to mess up our limited time with security, police reports, waiting for film to get developed, phone calls… The whole tornado of paperwork that probably would have ensued. Or figuring out bail in the state of Arizona if I had let my husband go after him the way he wanted to. Besides, this guy doesn’t know my name, who I am or where I live.
What would you have done if it was your cleavage?