I don't embarrass easily. That helps to explain why I can make a total ass out of myself and then expect you to still love me. "What? You mean it BOTHERED you when I stood up in the movie and told that guy to shut the Hell up before I crammed his boyfriend's balls down his throat? Well so what if he was with his wife and kids? He shouldn't have been talking so much!"
I've been doing really well the past few years in holding down my brash tendencies and have even become border-line mild. My clothing is evidence of this. I usually wear a tank top under anything that might be considered revealing, especially to work. It sounds like common sense, I know, but I go above and beyond common sense with my clothing choices. As as been discussed on this blog before, I have somewhere around 12 inches of cleavage to contend with. A blouse that is cute on one woman is obscene on me, so I try to dress appropriately.
Yesterday I had on a plunging neck line. In preparation for this outfit, I pulled a shiny tank top out of the back of the closet and threw it on. I noticed it was small and I noticed it was silky, so I wasn't surprised that it kept riding up underneath my other shirt.
Throughout the day, this tank top became a major annoyance. It was way small and all day I was fiddling with it, trying to yank it back down into place. It kept easing up, resting right under my titties. I thought, "When I get home, you're going in the garbage," but I apparently didn't make it home in time.
My friend C went with me to buy shoes. We're late night people, so we were hitting stores as they were closing. We had been to the mall with little luck and headed over to Shoe Carnival where the manager was eager to help. He wanted out of there as they closed in 10 minutes, so he kept bringing me shoes while C provided his opinion and ran the shoes back to their rightful spot. I was struggling with a pair of sandals, seated and bent over tugging on the back strap. I rose partially, still tilting forward, face up, talking to the manager about the merits of these shoes. He went to see if they came in another color. When he walked away, I straightened myself and discovered that my tank top had made it over my boobs and had formed a 2-inch band around my neck. Exposed between the bottom of the tank top and the beginning of the overshirt was enough breasts to get me $85 in tips.
There is no way the manager didn't notice this. It would be impossible. My bosoms were literally spilling out of my shirt for Christ's sake. And, of course, I had on a low-cut bra which only served to accentuate the exposed flesh. There was NO coverage.
When the manager came back, he only made eye contact with C. I'm glad. I was mortified.