That moment when you realize your friend has new boobs.

This year, I got together with a friend who got new boobs. And yes, I am being intentionally vague to protect the children that are most likely reading this blog. But here’s the awkward part, I didn’t notice that they were actually new.

I mean, I guess I did, but bras can do amazing things. And I’m pretty sure they could do that. But maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not an expert on this subject. Actually, I do have some fairly specific expertise on this topic. Because I have probably held a few more boobs in my hand than the average American woman. But certainly not nearly as many as a mammography nurse or a lactation consultant. Holy crap, people! I’m not a slut!

Anyhow, back to the new boobs on the old friend. She had to point them out. And it was so awkward that I don’t even really remember how it went down, because I was traumatized by the whole event, and now it is a repressed memory that has re-surfaced just in time for this post. I must be healing.

Her: “Did you notice my implants?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I guess. They look great! Er. Good. Am I allowed to talk about your breasts?”

Her: “Well, I thought you might not have noticed.”

Me: “I noticed they looked a bit bigger, but I was raised by proper Anglophiles, and we don’t talk about people’s breasts. Or bodies, at all. We only discuss napkin rings, vacation homes, concertos and the Royal Family.”

Her: “What do you think? I didn’t want them to be too big.”

Me: “If you like them, I like them.” I wish I would stop saying I like them.

Her: “They’re a B.”

Me: “Nice. And I’m not going to say anything else, because then you’ll probably want me to touch them. That’s how these conversations usually go.”

Her: “Really, this happens to you often?”

Me: “Yes, every week, practically.”

That last part was a total lie, but what else could I say. I needed out. But now that we’re back in. So help! What do you say when your friend gets new boobs? And yes, I checked, this is not in the book “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” so help me! What are you people good for?


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 © Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sarah Ann Gilbert and Seven Little Mexicans with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The only place I’m not gay

The only place I’m not gay is on my legs. I shave them. Oh, never mind. We’re talking about places where people know I’m gay. Which is most places or not. You would have to ask those places. But there is one place that I don’t talk about being gay. It’s not like I talk about it a lot! Except right now on this blog. So let me further clarify: There is really only one place where I avoid, if possible, mentioning that my spouse is female. And that place is the locker room at 24-Hour Fitness.
It’s not the gym’s fault. They aren’t homophobic, I promise. I’m just sort of a prude and I would rather not be naked, gay and with strangers all at the same time. So I’m sticking with naked and strangers for now, and maybe someday I’ll have a big, gay coming out party with all the ladies from Body Pump in the suburbs.
But the big gay topic is getting harder to avoid, especially with a woman I will call D.
D is a fixture in the second mirror from the left at 24-Hour Fitness. She is tall, fashionable and a Mary Kay representative. She is also everyone’s friend, and she’s not afraid to ask some up-close and personal questions.
D: How are your girls?
Me: Good. So funny. Marlo is talking a lot now.
D knows about by kids because she saw me when I was 18 months pregnant. Did I mention that I’m an elephant? I gestated a giant baby for at least 24 months. During that time, she quietly and delicately yelled across the locker room: “When did that happen?” I assume she was talking about my distended belly.
D: Are you going to have any more babies?
Me: Snort. No.
D: Are you sure?
Me: Um yeah.
D: You’ve taken care of all that?
Oh jeez. This is getting awkward.
Me: Yes. I’m 42.
D: Well, that doesn’t matter. You want to be sure. You know. Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
Then she asks me to help her with the buttons on her sleeve and we cut straight to the porn scene. It is a women’s locker room after all.
But now that the moment has passed I’ve thought of so many better answers. Here are a few:
1. There is no sperm in our relationship. Actually, there is but it’s in a freezer in Virginia.
2. We broke the test tube.
3. Our credit cards are maxed out.
4. We’re fresh out of eggs.
5. It was last call, and we were cut off.
I don’t think D would have gotten the joke, but maybe she would after we have a big, gay locker room surprise party. Maybe I’m plan that for next year.
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