The other day, I was having lunch with one of my co-workers, Neal, in the lunchroom. Some of the women associates come in after us. They chatted about what that interest them.
When men sit down to eat, half the time, we talk about women, and their attributes, both good and bad. On this day, Neal and I were eating, minding our own business and not talking. The four women started to talk about training bras and developing breasts.
Our ears perked up. I knew I had the makings of an interesting column. Neal sat there, saying all he wanted to do was eat, and he kept muttering, “Pease stop talking.”
These four women ranged in age from 30 to 50ish. The stories were quite different. All were amusing.
Sharon said she got her first training bra at nine. I had to chime in and ask, “What did you train them to do?” Not politically correct, but it had to be asked. All I got back was a mean eyed stare, which I expected. She went on to explain to the other women how hard it was to develop at such a young age and endure the stares and taunting of schoolmates who hand not developed, yet.
Jeannie is the demure, quiet one of the group. She’s has a grown son. When she came out with the following statement, both Neal and I almost chocked on our food, she said, “I trained them to behave and not come out and play.”
Ronnie had the most interesting story. She is the brash one of the group, never afraid to state what is on her mind. When she was in junior high school, the principal called her father, not her mother, to tell him that she had to wear a training bra, as she was distracting the male students and teachers.
Her father had to go to the school and take her out for the day. She was embarrassed to say the least. She didn’t think she needed a bra.
All that talk got me to thinking of two girls I remember from 7th grade, Meredith and Dawn. They were as different as night and day in every single way, especially, breast size.
Meredith was my 7th grade girlfriend, as I had written about in a previous column. She was slim and cute, but at thirteen years of age, hadn’t really developed. To me, the walking hormone, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do at that age was explore whatever female anatomy I could without getting in trouble.
Dawn on the other hand was fully developed and she liked to show them off, wearing low cut shirts and blouses. As the old saying goes, “If you’ve got ‘em, show ‘em off.” She certainly did.
Dawn was also a fan of short skirts and stockings, with garter belts. Imagine a thirteen-year-old boy seeing her cross her legs for the first time and the garter belt showing. The blood starts flowing downward and you pray that you didn’t have to stand up for two or three hours.
I remember we took a class trip to a roller rink, and on the way back to the school, Dawn was in the back seat of the bus making out with the class bad boy. Everyone kept turning around to look at them, and they didn’t care. All I wanted to do was to be back there with Meredith, or Dawn. At that particular moment, it didn’t make a difference.
These are reasons I keep a tight rein on my two girls, and gawd help any boy that tries anything with them. I know how they think, what they think and what they want. I used to be “them” and know it all.
For example, a couple of weeks ago, the phone rings at 10:45 pm. I’m almost asleep and wondering what moron is calling so late. It turns out to be some boy that Michelle knows from camp. I yell at him, telling him we’re all asleep and does he know its 10:45! He hangs up without saying another word.
I tell Michelle to talk to her camp friend, and warn him about my Derek Jeter Louisville Slugger. I also tell her he can’t call the house again. If he does, and I pick up the phone, I’ll rip him a new hole somewhere on his teenage anatomy.
Of course, she gives me that disgusted look, and says, "He’s just a friend." Yeah, right. Luckily, he doesn’t live close by and camp is over in two weeks.
When men talk about women’s breasts, it’s more like admiring their shape, size and what fruit they most resemble. Let’s face it; we like to stare at good-looking women, with nice bodies and shapely breasts.
I’m done. The blood is rushing out of my head. I’m getting dizzy now.
Matt Seinberg lives on Long Island, a few minutes east of New York City. He looks at everything around him and notices much. Somewhat less cynical than dyed in the wool New Yorkers, Seinberg believes those who don't see what he does like reading about what he sees and what it means to him. Seinberg columns revel in the silly little things of life and laughter as well as much well-directed anger at inept, foolish public officials. Mostly, Seinberg writes for those who laugh easily at their own foibles as well as those of others.
Click above to tell a friend about this article.