Titty Tantrum

“Why, once my eyes are open, is the first thing that you say to me about some other chick’s nipples?” I said to my husband this morning.

It’s 5 am, this cannot be real. I look around, my two cats on the bed next to me, my phone is plugged in on my right, I’m involuntarily starting to sniffle, and I’m thinking of all the ways her tits are better than mine. Yep, this is real. What the fuck?! A simple “Good morning,” is customary where I’m from.

I should probably explain that the night before, this was humorous (not to me) and that we were having a good time (again, not me) making jokes about the situation. What situation, you ask? Fantastic! I love rehashing painful and embarrassing moments in my life; please hold while I scroll through the Rolodex of shame and self-doubt. Ah, there it is, last night’s dinner date. Allow me to share our date night with you. 

Last night The Lobster (that’s what I call my husband) and I were going to an event to watch a friend of ours perform in a dance recital. Not some shitty, “Look, our kid is doing ballet, you should come to watch because you never helped us move and you feel guilty,” dance recital – but a legit thing. She is an accomplished belly dancer; she’s beautiful inside and out. But enough about her. The whole thing went sideways and got fucked in its own ear when we didn’t anticipate the park where it was located being overrun and couldn’t find parking. We’re fucking geniuses. It was Balboa Park in San Diego and it’s fucking Christmas time. We’re complete assholes. So, in good asshole fashion, we decided to take ourselves to dinner instead.

We found ourselves at this trendy noodle house that was once featured on one of those “You should eat here,” shows on television. The Lobster had already been here once, but I was a virgin. I love being able to say that about myself, (virgin) even in this context, even in some half-assed blog. Right…back on track…

It was a cool joint. The servers were dancing. It was a young crowd with an open atmosphere and decent music; no complaints thus far. I even got to poke fun at the hostess. Outwardly, she had it all going on. Long, beautiful hair, smoking hot body, and a pretty face. Then she spoke. Her very pronounced lisp made her sound like she was 5 and I could not have been any happier at that moment. It proved to me that there is a God and that you really can’t have it all.

She guided us towards the back and seated us. I seated myself against the wall in one of those booth-like seating arrangements while The Lobster took the chair with his back to the walkway. I just figured I was smaller, it would be easier for me to squeeze through the other diners. What became noticeable was the fact that the woman sitting across from my husband was wearing a white tank top and no bra. She was a perky young lady and had nipples that screamed at you. To The Lobster’s credit, he did ask if I wanted to trade seats with him. He could see the discomfort and, in fact, hatred, coming off me. I had already seated myself. I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. I’d just scowl and turn back away when she finally realized I was staring at her. I wanted to flick those little buggers until she decided to put some damned clothing on.

I looked across the table at what my staring partner would be. My husband got to ogle some 23-yr. old in a tank top sans bra with a bare midriff and some high waisted jeans, what would my eye candy be??? I got a millennial lumberjack. He, for real, looked like the lumberjack from Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. I was depressed. He had manicured hair and a  t-shirt that was too tight. He was spectacularly average. The Pendleton he wore was incredibly predictable and I didn’t even bother to look if they were skinny jeans he had on or not; I wanted to be able to eat my dinner. So sad, I was so very sad. 

They got up to leave shortly after our arrival. It didn’t much matter, the damage had already been done. Who the fuck does this chick think she is? I’m turning 39 next week, she needs to put her titties on lockdown. Not once when I was her age did I believe I looked good enough to go out in public like that. I never wanted that kind of attention. I’ve never had that kind of self-esteem.

The Lobster and I joked (I cried inside) about the social impropriety and the many ways I (because I’m an insecure slob) I could have made her feel uncomfortable (or tried to). For the remainder of the evening we laughed and ate, and I thought about that chick’s tits. It was a nice date night (grinds teeth).

This morning I opened my eyes and my husband says, “I know what you could have said to her about her nipples.”

I’m sorry, what the actual fuck is happening here?! Did I just wake up in the fucking Twilight Zone??? I can feel myself start to cry. No sir, you can go fuck yourself. I don't want to think about her tits again! Guess I’m not going back to sleep. Now all I can think about is my husband being turned on my some rando’s boobs. He’s probably going to masturbate to them later. Thanks, honey. This is just how I wanted to wake up.

He tried to make it better by fleshing out the idea (intentional usage of “fleshing”) and telling me it was an idea for a Monty Python skit. Cool, it’s still about some other chick’s tits!!! It’s still 5 am!!! Next, would you like to tell me about a “very nice shrubbery”???

Oh, for fuck’s sake – sorry Lobster. Sorry to blog about Rando’s boobs. Sorry to throw you under the bus (not really), but if it makes you feel better, it only makes me look like an insecure twat. I don’t mean to character assassinate; when I mean to, you’ll know it. And as we say in our household: stuff your twat, don’t be one!