Boobies, blushing and books

There are few things that embarrass me. While wearing hot pink silk panties and playing flag football in front of a gaggle of guys, my shorts were ripped off and I ran half the length of the field half naked, flag intact, to make a touchdown. The touchdown eradicated any embarrassment I felt when I realized I did it in my undies. I've slipped on wet tile floors in Sears and fallen on my backside, trailed toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my heels while wearing a very sexy dress through a crowded restaurant, conversed with celebrities unaware of a bat in the cave and endured the darndest things coming from the mouths of children and I'm still here. About the only thing that brings a blush to my cheeks is a heartfelt compliment; I've had little experience of those in my life, especially in person. So, I am not shocked or worried about revealing my sister's love/hate relationship with boobies for an anthology about breasts and self image. The phone call and discussion are exactly what people need to read and understand. Mom doesn't agree.

"Carol would be mortified."

"Why? It's just a story."

"At least change the names."

"I think by now people know that I have two sisters and it wouldn't be hard to figure out which one it is."

"Then you shouldn't write about it. It's embarrassing."

"It's interesting and funny and illustrates the point so much better than any story."

"Well, I can't tell you what to do." (You just did.) "I think it's in very poor taste, but you'll do it anyway. I know you." Mom hung up at that point. I'll have to bring this subject up again in case she's getting wise to my bathroom excuse for getting off the phone.

Beware: Anyone involved with me in any capacity is likely to end up as a character in a story or the subject of articles, columns and books. If you don't understand that, it's best to get out while you can.

The boobie story I'm writing for an anthology about breasts and self image is a perfect illustration of being careful what you wish. Beyond that, it shouldn't matter that Carol is my sister or that she seems a little shallow and ridiculous. It's not like someone to whom she's introduced will snigger and give her the "oh, you're that Carol, the one with the boobies" look. They might think it, but my sister and I travel in very different circles. Besides, I thought that any fifteen minutes of fame would do. Better to be known for boobies than for having drug addicts and thieves for children or some of the other things I could name, like turning a large bedroom into a closet because a regular closet wasn't big enough to hold all her clothes, shoes, purses, belts, hats and jewelry or constantly whining about being broke while working two jobs (one that pays $45/hour) and owning three properties, two of which bring in rent. We won't even go into the cars and truck and other necessities of life or the boyfriend who, after more than ten years, refuses to commit because he'd have to share his millions, or her four divorces. There are far worse things to detail than boobies.

As I told Aunt Anne a couple of weeks ago, it's better to push the skeletons out of the closet to make more room for books and so the skeletons can't come back to haunt or embarrass you.

That is all. Disperse.