A haboob is an intense sandstorm. We have many in Phoenix. One can watch a haboob roll across the landscape. I actually think they are quite interesting and I enjoy watching them. But the haboobs I am referring to are completely different.
As I have mentioned in the past, I got boobies. The older I get the lower they get. If I ever went braless, I would have a calloused naval. It takes some major expensive armature to keep my boobs where they belong. I go through bras like a diarrhea sufferer goes through toilet paper. The other day I noticed that my boobies were missing, again! My boobs disappear so much that they should be pictured on a milk carton. Missing boobies signifies time to go bra shopping. I hate buying things that no one sees!
On the drive home next to the Church's Chicken is The Bra Shop. What better place to buy a bra than a bra shop. Janet and I stopped on the way home and when we entered we were surrounded by bras. Bras to the left, bras to the right, everywhere I looked there were bras, oh, and wedding dresses! Bras and wedding dresses! Apparantly one can't make a living just selling bras.
When we entered a very thin, old woman asked, "How may I help you?"
I was thinking, "Well, this is a bra shop, call me crazy, but I am here for a bra." But that is not what I said, I said, "I am here to buy a bra." I am so much funnier and clever in my head than I am in real life.
"Have you been fitted for a bra before," she asked.
In my head, "Well, ever since my boobies disappeared and flattened years back, I no longer need to be fitted for a bra, I was thinking I needed to fitted for a roll-up shade mechanism." But that is not what I said, I replied, "No."
"Come back with me," she smiled as she skipped to the back of the store. "Do you think you could fit your chair into the dressing room?"
I was thinking, "Considering you had to slide your skinny ass sideways to get through the door, I don't think my big ass and my big ass wheelchair could fit through that door." But that is not what I said, I said, "No ma'am, I cannot."
"That's okay," she said cheerily, "we can just lock the door and you can take your clothes off right here in front of this mirror."
First, I need to explain something, in my mind, I look so much better than I do in person, that is why I do not make eye contact with myself in a mirror. I hate the way I actually look. I have zero visual self-esteem. I have a huge ego when it comes to my teaching ability and content knowledge, but not when it comes to the way I look. Even when I did look good and was at my skinniest, I would not look in a mirror.
So when the lady asked me to strip in front of a wall-to-wall-floor-to-ceiling mirror, I was thinking, "You have got to be flipping crazy, if you think I am going to take off my clothes in front of you, God and this mirror from Hell!" But that is not what I said, I looked at Janet sadly and said, "Okay."
Now when one is fitted for a bra one is not measured under one's boobies, one is not measured across one's boobies, one is measured high under one's armpits above one's boobies. Why does one have to get completely naked to get measured there?
As the lady was searching for the perfect bra, I accidentally made eye contact with myself in the mirror, "OMG, look at how swollen my feet are?"
"Don't make eye contact! Don't make eye contact!" Janet warned.
"It is kind of hard not to make eye contact when I am in front of a 20 x 12 foot mirror," I whined. "Thank God I got rid of all the mirrors in my bathroom. Do you think if I close my eyes and pray real hard, that when I open them I will look like the person I want to look like?"
"No, I suggest you don't open your eyes until this is done and we are in the van," Janet replied.
The very very old, very very skinny lady finally came back with the perfect bra. She shakily helped roll my boobies up into the well-shaped cups and she said, "Look, it fits you perfectly."
I was thinking, "LOOK! LOOK! I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK AT MYSELF IN YOUR MIRROR. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH TRAUMA IN ONE DAY!" But that is not what I said, I said, "Yea, it looks great," as I squinted through one open eye.
One hundred and five dollars later when we got in the van I looked down at my chest that was sporting my perfectly hand fitted bra and shouted, "HABOOBS!"
I am a boob man. I love to rest my head on your boobs, her boobs, their boobs and HABOOBS!
The Flip Side
I don't know if I am a boob man. Paco won't let me near any.