This morning the doorbell rang before 8:00. It is summer. We're up late, and I was still in bed. For reasons I will not get into, I was in a t-shirt with no bra at the time of the egregious doorbell-ringing. So I grabbed some work-out pants, and using the door as a shield, I cracked open the door. It was the handy man, coming to take care of a few things before we close on the house. Before 8:00 in the morning. Shit. As long as he kept his eyes between my natural chest area and my eyes, we were fine. But I knew if he looked closer to the waistband of my workout pants, I'd be screwed. He would wonder why I had two hackey sacs about to fall out of my t-shirt. Oh, now would be a good time to tell you that I was wearing Bossy's BlogWhore t-shirt, that I so eagerly ordered to feel a part of the BlogHer "thing" going on without me. Can I interrupt the story for a moment to tell you that most people do not blog? And that they want to know why a mommy of four is wearing her BlogWhore t-shirt at the family gym? Yeah. Good times.
So this handyman comes in, asks me where some things are, and I use my words to the best of my ability. But I've had no coffee, and coffee
He finally left, and I froze my position and slowly walked over to the mirror. One arm still across my chest, supporting the remnants of my left mammary, the other arm raised in an "over there" gesture. Let's just say one side of me looked normal, maybe the side view of a regular woman in her thirties. The other side?