Otto and I once vowed to go out to breakfast together once a week, but we did it a few times and then his car got hit and we got busy and we’ve just not managed to keep it up. This morning, though, as I sat at my desk, fantasizing about going back to bed, Otto announced that we were going to breakfast.
He lured me in with promises of hot coffee and stone-ground grits, so really, I had no choice. Work? Work, schmerk! It would still be here when I got back! (It was, too. Plenty of people hire ghostwriters… maybe I could hire someone to just take care of my more annoying assignments while I’m out holding hands with my husband. I should look into that.)
We headed downtown for our breakfast date and—as usual—I started feeling very old amidst the college students.
Oh, I am accustomed to the pierced faces and the interesting hairdos and all. But the wind was whipping around this morning and it was about 52 degrees (FREEZING!) and I was trying VERY VERY HARD not to whine about being cold, even though I really WAS cold, because I was wearing short sleeves and had skipped a jacket because PFFFFT, IT’S OCTOBER IN GEORGIA, HOW COLD COULD IT BE? Otto was being kind and loving and saying helpful things like “NOT ONE WORD ABOUT BEING COLD, WIMP” and such and I was looking around at students wearing their flip-flops (which enrage me, anyway, because HELLO, unless you are IN THE SHOWER AT CAMP those are not actually SHOES) and cut-offs and miniskirts that only cover the area where hair would grow if they had any, which frankly I do not want to think about too hard.
So we went to a diner we like and I ordered coffee and then wrapped my hands around the mug for warmth and tried to keep my teeth from chattering, and of course observing all of the interesting wardrobe choices outside prompted Otto to comment on some “inappropriate attire” he’s seen on his students, and we had just about come around to discussing slightly more meritorious issues (like how we are old and tired and need to start going to bed earlier) when a waitress swept past us in a skin-tight white tank top. And no bra.
Look. I know it’s not my place to judge. I KNOW. But I just want to drink my coffee and have my breakfast, and if I really wanted to spend my morning with nipples in my face, I’m sure there are ways in which that could be arranged. But I am not seeking porn at the moment, I’m just waiting for my bacon. So do you think maybe you could either wear a bra or put something on over your tank top. I mean, I was wondering if it’s still cold outside and NOW I KNOW.
She was young and perky and pretty, and she headed over to the table behind us to take their order, and I COULD NOT LOOK AWAY. It was mesmerizing. I mean, she might as well have been naked. Part of me wanted to say GOOD FOR YOU because lord knows that if I had had ANY idea what breastfeeding would do to my breasts, I would’ve spent a lot more time pimping the girls in my youth, and—
Wait. That’s not true. Back in my day (lo those many years ago, during the Jurassic period), I always wore a bra in public. Had my nipples been showing through a white shirt in such a way that people could’ve played connect-the-dots with the bumps on my areolae I’m sure I would’ve died of embarrassment.
She seemed completely oblivious. Even when the guy behind us was completely unable to make eye contact with her while ordering his pancakes.
Maybe I’m just an old prude, I dunno.
What I DO know is that I’m really, really glad I skipped the sunny-side up eggs.