Boobless in a Busty World

life on the flat size

I went to a German restaurant the other day with some friends. Secretly, I was hoping I could use my impressive polyglot skills by showcasing my 15 or so words in German.

Such as: Wo ist die Toilette? I think you can figure that one out. Or if I’m really feeling bold, Wie sind die Spätzle? (How is the spätzle?)

Is your Deutsch a little rusty? Spätzle means “pile ‘o’ noodles buried alive underneath gravy.” Or something like that anyway.

I was all smiley and ready to greet the waitress with a “guten tag!” but when she appeared at our table, words escaped me. Both English and my 15 words of German.

My eyes were riveted to her bosom. She was trussed up in traditional German dress, a dirndl. The dress consists of a fitted bodice, a skirt, a shirt, and an apron.

It was the fitted bodice part that seized my attention, given the spillage. It was playing peekaboo and jiggled as she positioned her pen. It was sort of hard to miss.

I averted my eyes long enough to inquire “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” to which she replied “Nein” with a Wisconsin accent.

I couldn’t help myself. I was fascinated with her boobs. And ditto for the other waitress. Truly cup size was part of the screening process for new hires here. Was this legal?

When she leaned over, there it was in all her glory. Das Mädchen. The Girls. All that was lacking were runway lights.

Good gravy! I’m in a Bavarian Hooters.

I could feel a blush of shame. Eyes up there, I scold myself.

My free-range thoughts continue. I wonder if she is keeping up on her mammograms. Might there be a tumor in those girls? Should I tell her to be sure to keep up with those mammograms because you never know when a good boob goes bad?

More thoughts race through my unmedicated ADHD mind. My God! Am I a closeted lesbian because I’m find myself noticing bosums so much?

I mean, I’m totally cool with whatever one’s orientation might be, but was this new hyper awareness of breasts was revealing something deeper to me?

I consulted within. Nope. Not gay.

Is my inner child actually a prepubescent male? Hmm. Might be a topic to explore with my therapist.

My interest isn’t of a sexual nature. I’m just aware of the contrast. Boobs, no boobs. No boobs, boobs. Big boobs, little boobs. No boobs.

Good god, man. Now Journey is playing in my head.

Just a small-town girl, livin’ in a lonely world. Only the lyrics have changed.

Just a boobless girl living in a busty world.

Where the hell did that come from?

How’s your food, Theresa? Theresa?

My dinner companion is talking to me.

Damn. Busted again. I got lost in my thoughts. Thoughts about boobs, for God sakes. What the hell is the matter with me?

I regard my plate. The waitress had described the potato dumpling as being “like a baseball” but I decide it looks like a boob. A nice tidy C cup, by my estimate. This would be a kinky boob though, given the gravy. Whatever.

I briefly toyed with the idea of placing a slice of the bratwurst atop as a faux nipple but decided my dining companions might not appreciate the humor.

I dig my fork into it. The consistency is smooth and tumor free.

“It’s good!” I tell my friend. (Note to self: Never, ever, under ANY circumstances, order a potato dumpling.)

The food was fine but in reality, I was wondering if the carb-heavy fare was part of the reason they lost the war. I mean what, with all those potatoes to harvest clad in tight dirndls and whatnot. I’d probably want to incite a war myself.

I was acutely disappointed too that there wasn’t a stitch of lederhosen to be found in the joint either. But only because I find the opportunity to use the word “lederhosen” to be amusing but I’m using it anyway, so not all is lost.

Tummy full, I gather my purse to leave and there they are again. She’s leaning over another table. I offer a silent prayer that the string holding the show together doesn’t pop open.

You can have ’em, I think to myself. And please stay on top of those mammograms.

I glance down at my ironing board chest and I try to picture me in that fitted bodice. I look like a box. A large, square box, dressed for a polka. All I need now is an accordion player and perhaps I could break into a folk dance.

Maybe an accordian player will show up in Lederhosen and one of those dapper hats with a feather in it.

Hell, maybe I should play accordion given there would be nothing in the way when I hold it up to my chest.

Rut roh. That bratwurst is playing its own tune. Hopefully that gravied breast, I mean, dumpling, will soak up some of the grease that is clearly not playing nice with my digestive system. The purple cabbage is picking up the tempo and the gurgling in my gut crescendos. I need to get my boxy torso outta here before I rip a big one.

The intestinal turmoil isn’t as acute as the big salad and Starbucks incident from a few years ago… but it’s running a close second.

I bid goodbye to my companions, hoping they don’t notice my sense of urgency.

I step outside just in time. Phew, that was close.

I bid Auf Wiedersehen to the restaurant. And decide it’s a good thing I can never work there.

It’ll be pants optional time at home and since there is no longer that sense of relief from ripping off my bra when I get home, this is the next best thing.

With polka music playing in my head, I slip the car into drive and take my flat chest home. And I remind that even with all the absurdities, gastronomic disturbances, flat or not…

Life is still wunderbar.

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