At work last week, one of the Attendance clerks was wearing the prettiest blue top you ever did see.
But when I was in the Break room with her, before the school bell rang, she admitted something. The top was brand-new; she bought it at Ross. Brought it home, was cutting the tags off and… what do you suppose she found? A maternity tag!
Here she was so thrilled with how it fit, and come to find out, it was a maternity top!
By this time one of the science teachers entered. “That’s not a maternity top,” she said. I agreed. It had to be mislabeled.
“No, really. It said maternity!”
“Yeah, but look,” I tug at the front of her blouse. “You get anything more than a two month bump and your belly is showing.”
“Yeah,” confirms Ms. Science. “Unless it was made for one of those, you know, the types who carry those cute baby balls in front of them. Unlike me, who got huge everywhere.
Attendance clerk nods. She got huge too. I stay quiet. Mine were baby balls.
“At least I don’t have to worry about my tummy showing when I stretch,” says Attendance clerk. She raises her arms…
Ms. Science and I confirm there is no tummy showing.
“See, I always go for long shirts so I can cover my backside,” says Ms. Science, turning around and patting her bottom. “Teachers have to think about this, because otherwise–”
She goes into an impressive deep knee bend, right next to the water cooler…
“See, if I’m next to a student’s desk, I don’t want to show any crack, you know? I’m really careful about that. We teachers have to be.”
She pops back up with remarkable ease. Dang, this woman is limber.
Not to be left out, I make my own wardrobe complaint.
“Exposure-wise, I’ve got you both beat. We small-breasted types have to be super careful. We can’t wear shirts too blousy or low-cut, because if we bend over…
“A woman with big boobs only gives you an eyeful of cleavage, but small boobs? You see everything with us. And I mean everything. You can see clear down to China.
“That’s why we put our hand to our chest every time we bend over. Cause otherwise we’re running a peep show.”
They both nod, sensing my pain.
As we leave the break room, ready to start the day, Ms. Science turns to me. “Men have no idea about this kind of stuff,” she says. “It’s both tops and bottoms with us. There’s always something trying to fall out. Men don’t know what we deal with.”
“Yeah, you’re right, they don’t know.”
Unless they read this blog. Then they’ll know.
Illustrations by R.J. Hartwell, aka, Daughter