I went to a gathering last night and, as usual, saw many displays of cleavage all over the room. I call them fashion fruits. A couple of grapefruits were nestled in a fluffy pink sweater. Cantaloupes hovered behind a saggy green tank top. And the plums, the poor little plums, straining to be noticed in a white scooped-neck t-shirt.
One set vied for center of attention. The turquoise top they were in plunged quite low, and I couldn’t really fit them into my little fruit metaphor except that they were like two oranges in flesh-tone socks that gravity was hell-bent on dragging to her waistline.
The problem for me is that I never know where to look. It’s distracting – I’m trying to focus on the person’s face, but those casabas are practically screaming at me to look down. A rat could scurry across my bare foot and I’d be like somebody in a neck brace.
For people like me who are never sure what to do, I think it’s high time we get this thing out in the open. Women are always tossing out compliments about someone’s hair or shoes or clothes. We could just add, “And that cleavage of yours is quite remarkable, it just makes your whole outfit. And it’s so natural looking!”
If it becomes socially acceptable to notice and comment, then the awkwardness will disappear. All those women last night could have complimented each other’s endowment, and the married men, reduced to enjoying the display with sideways glances, could openly relish the titillation. “Yes, I certainly have to agree with my wife, your cleavage is just breathtaking!”
When someone establishes the proper etiquette in these situations, everyone will breathe a huge sigh of relief. Meantime, those of us with apricots and kiwis are counting the days until it’s turtleneck season.
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