Every Wednesday, you get a peek inside the mail bag. In this case, that bag is full of letters I write to ask questions we all want answered…or maybe just me.
Dear Boob Cleavage,
I am writing this letter to both thank you and apologize. Let’s be honest. I think we both know that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my life staring at you. And why? You’re not even actual boobs. You’re really just the absence of boobs in between them.
Jerry Seinfeld once told George Constanza that cleavage is like the sun, you should look quickly and then look away. I apologize for the times that I have stared at you so intently I felt as though my retinas would suffer permanent damage. In truth, I ogled you and I didn’t even have to stammer over saying it like Will Ferrell did in Stranger Than Fiction.
I also want to apologize for craning my neck to get a glimpse of you when in line or driving next to you on the highway. That’s just childish.
But, it should be pointed out that the people who own you do a very poor job of hiding you from the general public if they don’t want us to look. Fashion gave us v-necks, tank tops and the Wonderbra. No one should be surprised when I or any other normal, straight, adolescent-minded male (i.e. all of us) looks or even stares.
Most importantly, I thank you for the gift of possibility. As someone much weirder than me (Shut up to those who read this and thought, “Who could that possibly be?) once said about breasts, “Some people say, ‘Seen one, you’ve seen them all,’ but I say, ‘Seen one, want to see them all.'” Since seeing them all isn’t a realistic possibility in this reality (maybe in the next life, fingers crossed), you give us that glimmer of hope that keeps us going.
Honestly, I think you’re like medicine because I can almost always count on you to make me feel better – even when you are covered in some weird ass tattoo or lower than usual due to sagging or so scary large, I’m concerned you might swallow my head and crush it like a walnut. It doesn’t matter. Seeing you always brings a smile to my face.
Listen, I know that you totally find the whole thing creepy, but let’s pretend you don’t, ok? Because, it’s the pretending that makes society run smoothly like saying, “No, you look hot” when your girlfriend asks you, “Does this dress make me look fat?” or believing that aliens aren’t plotting to overthrow the world with a secret mutogenic virus that will turn us into jelly-like creatures the aliens will use for sexual lubricant. It’s those little white lies we tell each other that keep us happy and safe in the knowledge that we are more than alien KY Jelly, which we TOTALLY are. *wink*
Thanks again, boob cleavage. See you this summer!
All the best,
P.S. Say hello to your cousin, ass crack. We have such a love hate relationship. I’m never sure whether I should drop him a line or not because I have no idea who will show up – hot thong girl or fat, hairy plumber guy. You see my dilemma.
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