Happy almost-Father’s Day. If you are my dad (or, really, any dad), you might want to stop reading. Seriously. This post is about to be about boobs. And, as a dad, you don’t really want to know, right?
Seriously, though. Turn back now.
Or read ahead at your own peril.
So, earlier this week I was walking to the local takeaway food/butcher/deli place down the street and I felt a sort of stabbing feeling between my boobs. I looked down and realized that I had a roll of dog poop bags in my cleavage—which I’d put there, what, an hour, two hours, before when I was taking the dog out and I didn’t have pockets in my coat or skirt.
The truth is: I do that sometimes. Store things in my cleavage. Keys. Credit cards. Apparently, dog poop bags. I forget that not everyone does this (not everyone can do this, right?). To me, it’s somehow the logical conclusion: “Oh, well, I don’t have pockets, so…”
And in the items go.
Usually I don’t forget about them though. And usually they aren’t lime-green rolls of poop bags. So this time it was kinda embarassing.
Also, I’m in Scotland. And, true or not, my perception is that this is a somewhat proper culture. Which makes the whole poop-bag-in-my-cleavage thing a little more mortifying. Probably.
Has anyone else ever had this happen? Or is this just me?
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