Earlier today, I left my local FedEx Office store with more than just a tracking number.
I walked in with a simple request: I needed to mail off last night’s short story for entry into a contest. The mailing had to be postmarked by today’s date, and my neighborhood post office was closed.
I was wearing a V-neck maxi dress. The V was somewhat deep, but nothing terribly revealing, being as though The Girls have never been so large that they didn’t know their place.
As the manager was waiting for me to fill out my shipping form, she said to me, “I love your dress. I would never be able to wear something like that though.”
I looked more closely at her and realized that she was a bit beyond blessed in the chest region.
“Well, you have those, and I have this dress,” I said.
Despite the comment, which I made simply because it felt like a funny response, I’ve never really wished for a larger chest. For one, things fit me well right off the rack. Two, I’m a stomach-sleeper and probably wouldn’t be if The Girls were any larger. Three, I’ve got enough back issues without needing two more things to contribute to the mess.
She continued the conversation, clearly assuming my comment meant that I felt like I’d gotten the short end of the stick in that category.
“You know, you can make them bigger,” she offered up.
Is this seriously turning into a conversation about boobs at the FedEx Office location?
I wasn’t sure what she was trying to get at, but all I could think of was her nibbling on a root or herb or some other magical, edible wonder in the hopes of increasing her bra size even more.
“Yeah, I’ll pass on the herbal supplements though,” I said.
“Oh, please! No supplements at all. You just need to stimulate them,” she said.
I stared at her for a second and finally blinked.
“You know, stimulate them. Massage them. I have friends who have had kids, and their boobs ended up getting all saggy and deflated afterwards. It’s because they didn’t massage them.”
By this time, I was confused as to how this gal had come to be a FedEx Office manager. I then decided it was because she had either a) bestowed some boob advice to a female higher-up who tried it and was convinced it was working, or b) she had regaled a group of male co-workers with her tales of boobdom and massage wizardry over drinks late one night after work. Or maybe even in broad daylight while sober.
Whatever the case, she was speaking very authoritatively about the topic.
“Well, good information — I think. So how much do I owe you?” I asked.
“For the boob advice?” she asked.
“No. For mailing that thing out,” I said, motioning to the story which had since been sealed up and which was waiting uncomfortably to be dropped into a shipping bin far, far away from the conversation it was forced to listen to.
(It was a children’s story, so I felt even worse for it. Little ears! Tsk, tsk.)
I paid and, as I was walking out the door, she hollered out, “You only need to do it in the shower for about five minutes each day. Just massage! You’ll be surprised.”
As her directions flew through the air, a gentleman was making his way inside and gave me a creepy smile.
Tonight I am thankful for my bizarre experience at the FedEx Office location and for the unsolicited boob advice. This was one of those days when I wasn’t sure what I’d write about, but once the situation unfolded, I knew I had to put pen to paper — and fingers to keyboard. The next time I find myself cruising around The OC and overhear someone talking about enhancing certain parts of their physique, I will direct them to FedEx Office instead of first visiting their local plastic surgeon.