Appreciate The Little Things (Not So Littul, Akshully)

Concerning the recently mentioned boobs:

My five-foot-three self and I are gathering about three days' worth of mail this morning. (What? We don't leave the apartment here; it's not in vogue.) We have a UPS slip to get a package from the package room (if you can imagine such a thing). The slip corresponds with a truly sizable box sent from Atlanta after Thanksgiving with, like, every single play I've ever owned, ever. (YOU: Oh. Good. More Theatre Thursdays. I'm sooo pumped *eyeroll* ME: SHUT IT.)

So, me and my physics degree over here, we decide to put the slippery mail on top of the heavy, heavy box, and balance/carry it over to the elevator. Then, with the slippery mail on top of the heavy, heavy box, my physics degree and I decide to push the elevator button with one of the outer corners of the box. Of course the slippery mail starts to slip, and the heavy, heavy box starts to tip, and, worst of all, my keys - which are on top of the slippery mail which is on top of the heavy, heavy box - start to slip toward the edge of the box, threatening to plummet into the terrifying abyss that is the 3-inch gap between the elevator and the actual floor. I mean, who knows where that goes? Probably to Hell, or to some mole people's lair under New York City. And I don't want mole people having a key to my apartment. I'm sure they're perfectly nice, but they probably don't smell so good.

So my physics degree informs me that I should prevent imminent disaster and stinky mole visitors by correcting the angle of the box and tilting back away from the elevator, which I do, just in the nick o' time to keep my keys *and* mail from slippery sliding off the box into the aforementioned abyss. The mail stops on a piece of packing tape that's popped up, but the keys on their heavy little purple belay (Do you know what a belay is? If you don't, that means you never did a ropes course at camp, and I feel sad for you.) are threatening to slide toward me, off the inner side of the box, and clatter to the floor causing not only embarrassment in the packed lobby (where no one is offering help, by the way), but also the necessity to put down the box, and the mail, and rearrange, and then try to pick that shit up again, which... no. The keys plummet off the inner side of the box, and I'm waiting for them to hit the floor and signal to me that I need to go back to MIT for some refresher courses, and also that I'm going to have a pulled lower back after trying to get the box back up off the floor once I pick up the keys...

And the keys never hit the floor.

I look down, and there they are: sweetly cradled in the valley of my mammary glands. My boobs: the ultimate shelf. At that moment, I (and my lower back) really appreciated them.



  1. Okay, if this incident does not convince you of the OBVIOUS need to name those glands, nothing will. (Alas, I fear the answer is "nothing will.") HOW ELSE CAN YOU SAY THANK YOU PROPERLY?!

  2. I love my bewbs. Except when I take my bra off at the end of the day and discover that morsels of my lunch have made it down into my DD cup as though The Girls were saving my corn for later ..

  3. Re the boob shelf: bwah!
    Re the crack in the elevator: I dropped my keys in there once. My doorman said it's a hazard of living in New York and that every building in Manhattan must have a hundred sets of keys rusting in the bottom of the elevator shaft.


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