Command Decision

I have made a command decision. It will alter my life as I know it. Ok, not really...............Here I will fill you in. So as my friends will tell you, a little to eagerly sometimes, I can be a little slow on the uptake. So here it goes, last week I was having a much deserved drink ( ok more than one) with Christine. We enjoy getting together to sit down and solve life’s problem with Vodka ( I know how that sounds :) , I meant it to), like any proper lady would. We went to this new restaurant at Santana Row, found a cute little lounge area where we could comfortably talk, laugh and sigh at what life throws you. This is all back ground so hang in there...... A band came to play at the restaurant, but apparently our little lounge area was prime real estate and we were promptly shifted to the bar area. Christine and I are chatting away, with no real interest in what is happening around us, but we are facing the bartenders. Drinks run low and ah what the hell, we have plenty of time to drown another one. Our bartender was definitely easy on the eyes, I wouldn’t mind running in to him in a dark alley. We order our drinks from Mr. Hottie, and in the course of this Mr. Hottie makes a comment about the top I am wearing. It’s a favorite of mine, coral in color, V-neck, hip length ( all the guys are groaning now, hey if it was a car part I was describing, I would have your full attention), with white block writing that says Brooklyn. So he asked me if I was from Brooklyn, I proclaimed to him, please reference the above mentioned drinks, that I wouldn’t be caught dead broadcasting the city I was from on my chest. The cheeky bartender coyly states, “ It looks good anyway.”. After the warm fuzzy feeling of having a man pay you, albeit a compliment about my rack, a compliment just the same, it dawns on me that A) He was fully checking out my rack and admitted it and B) damn he is hot, wait wait, he was checking out my rack!!!!!!. Can’t say that I was really that offended, cute boy talking to me, we will let it slide. Funny thing though, I was at Trader Joe’s last night grocery shopping for the week and here I am standing in line checking out. My checker, we will call him Grandad, to make a point, is intently looking at my chest, not that I noticed this really. He innocently tried to sounding out loud, what my t-shirt said. It was white with purple cursive. Nothing special. So he asks me finally, what my shirt says and I admit with to him that I have no idea. But it occurs to me that Grandad has been intently staring at my chest , see slow on the uptake. Feeling more than a little embarrassed and looking around to see if anyone else is paying attention to this weird conversation, thankfully no one was. I think Grandad noticed the level of my discomfort, because then he tried to start explaining himself, swearing that he truly was reading my shirt and nothing else. Well ummm, you see, the letters are distorted by MY BREASTS! To even make out what the letters formed you would have to study closely. Ummm, no thanks!!!! At least not by Grandad. Man, why oh why, didn’t I get in to either a line with a woman checker or at least an attractive checker. So the command decision, the life altering change, no more t-shirts with writing on them, unless of course it’s a Hooter’s t-shirt or a Playboy, because in that case hell, I am asking for it. My friends that have seen me in the flesh are now hopefully laughing but mostly saying, rriiiiiigggghhhtttt, it’s the writing that is drawing their attention.