The Human Pincushion

Yesterday, my right boob awoke as though it was any other day. My left one woke up, as well, but the right one had no idea the day that was immediately before it.

The Girls and I gardened outside, worked up a sweat, and I managed to stab my hands and torso numerous times as I planted a rose bush out front.

I was so exhausted after working in the yard that I opened the patio door into, yes, my right boob. It’s not like it needed any re-attaching, but it still didn’t feel too good, either.

We (The Girls and I) did some tidying up of the house, quickly showered and then primped before people started arriving for Easter dinner.

Note: I speak of them as though they’re a force to be reckoned with, but they’re not. They’re unobtrusive and unremarkable, but hey — shirts fit me, and when I gain weight, they do too.

Unfortunately when I lose weight, they’re the first things to peace out — along with a chin or three.

But anywho…

I was busily chopping carrots yesterday when my parents and grandparents showed up. My grandmother has looked more and more thin over the years, but make no mistake — the woman can give a serious hug. And yesterday she was on a mission to do exactly that.

As she came towards me in the kitchen, I was wielding a knife and she was wielding a beautiful corsage above her left bosom. It was purple-y, pinkish in color, and had a lovely ribbon around it. I was still admiring it and trying to figure out what sort of flower it was as she went in for a hug, and just at that moment —

“HOLYMOTHEROFHAYSOOS! What the F?!”

I shoved her away from my person as quickly as she’d gone in for the kill.

Yes, friends, my right boob had just been impaled by — no joke — her three-inch-long corsage pin. And it felt like all three inches had just copped a seriously mighty feel.

She was still stunned and stood there blinking, wondering what she’d done. I whipped open my cardigan and we saw blood emerge from the scene of the crime. She shrieked what sounded like a half-laugh, half-“what, who me?” Fortunately I’d worn a strapless dress which was steering clear of the mess, lest I be forced to take bloody rags to the dry cleaners.

The boob spent the better part of the afternoon cowering, and likely preferred from that moment on that I be wearing chainmail instead of a Nordies sweater. But we made it through most of the dinner without further incident, so all was mostly well with the world.

Long about dessert, after after one too many glasses of wine, my eyes were taking some mental notes about the dining room we’d all been sitting in. Note to self: adjust one of the crooked, tiny shades perched on the chandelier. Straighten one of my framed pictures on the wall. Pick up the giant pin staring back at me from the carpet and sticking straight up as though it was a damn compass needle that’d gone haywire and broke through its housing.

REALLY?!

I’m not quite sure how the corsage — which she removed shortly after the pin tried to murder me — wound up needle-less and with the thing mere inches from my bare foot. It was protruding from the carpet and I only saw it because the afternoon light was casting some serious sparkles off the thing.

Unreal.

I snatched it up off the floor, shrieking and scolding whoever wanted to listen. I think most were amused rather than genuinely concerned. In a weird way, this was my youth that was getting back at me.

You see, I used to make hair scrunchies (yeah, yeah — laugh it up) back in the 80s. Or maybe it was the 90s. Either way, I used to have a great time buying remnant fabric and stitching it around a small piece of elastic. Voila! Insta-scrunchie. Except that I was also repeatedly turning my dad into a human pincushion, since my location of choice for said sewing was on their bed.

So I might’ve lost a needle here and there. I knew it would always turn up again. (And it did, usually when the ‘rents climbed into bed for the night and found it with a calf, a thigh or their bare feet. Oops.)

Tonight, my boob and I are thankful for a few key things: 1) I’m thankful I don’t have implants, because it surely would’ve been punctured yesterday, 2) I’m thankful for the universe reminding me that what goes around comes around (sorry, dad), and 3) I’m thankful that the day didn’t get any worse and that the boob was able to sleep in relative peace. This evening, I’m treating it to an early bedtime for putting up with yesterday’s shenanigans.

Night, y’all. 

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