There are approximately 345 days of rain where I live, about half of them during the summer (the other half are on weekends). It is not unusual to have 25+ days of rain in July, August, or both, as was the case this year.
So when the sun comes for one its rare visits, everyone enjoys it, even if it means dressing wildly inappropriately. Such was the case today when, after a spectacularly shitty Sunday, we were treated to one of the 14 blue skies which we see every year.
Naturally, here in health-conscious Europe, everyone was eager to produce as much Vitamin D as possible. For the men, this means short-sleeved shirts with a tie to produce the dorkiest faux professional look possible. For the women, this means low v-necked tops, since a woman can display a shocking amount of skin and still be professionally dressed.
I suppose that's because strippers are a type of professional, but I can't say for certain.
Thus it happened that as I purchased my sandwich today, I found myself standing in a line that was 20 people long and offered ample opportunity to check out the lay of the land, so to speak.
Almost everyone was observing the "Blue Sky Rules" accordingly, myself included. Sure, there was one woman wearing what looked to be toga made from old 70's curtains, but everyone else was going for the short sleeve/low top casual look.
My attention was drawn to one particular woman in a light blue top with the V in her shirt that came to just above her navel. In addition to the typical riddle of "what's holding up her breasts?" that one always asks when presented with this type of shirt, her mammaries presented an additional puzzle:
Is that a third nipple?
Listen, for an observer of the bizarre like myself, this is not a question asked lightly. I consider myself cut from the mold of Ripley: I find the strange and bizarre and blog about it here for your amusement. This is why I often find myself in life-threatening situations involving teenagers or burying dead animals.
It was with that spirit in mind that I examined, in detail, the third nipple perched between her breasts. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, a mole with another mole on it, the entire package placed inartfully between her boobs.
Unfortunately, her problems extend far beyond a moley nipple (or a nipply mole)and troubles with her mirrors. Turns out she's touchy, too.
"What the hell are you looking at?" she asks me.
It's amazing how well her voice carried in the packed sandwich shop full of work acquaintances who were now staring at me like I'd order a turd sandwich and a bottle of piss.
What could I say? A number of responses flew through my head:
"I dunno, but you better take it to a dermatologist."
"Is that a tattoo or a birthmark?"
"Did you know your mole's perkier than your boobs?"
"Paradise by the dashboard lights!"
"I'm sorry, I've been blind since the accident."
However, I immediately discarded all those responses because they're against my religion (Puss-Fu). I settled for a mumbled "um, sorry" and prayed that the line would move faster.
Of course, it didn't, and everyone stared at me for twenty minutes like I was a pervert simply because I'd gotten caught staring at the moley boob (boobey mole?) of a woman twenty years my senior.
I hope you all appreciate the humiliation that I go through for you.