The other day I turned around just as a dance instructor was in the process of removing her outer garment – a sweatshirt. She had already extracted her right arm from the sleeve and was snaking it beneath the sweatshirt, across her chest, and over to the left armpit to help extract her left arm. But that’s not how I saw it.
I didn’t see the start of the process. All I saw when I turned around is that the part of her sweatshirt that should have been calmly covering her breast area was instead concealing some sort of undulating monster. In retrospect, the undulation was caused by her right arm under the sweatshirt, but to me it appeared that either her boobs were dancing or she was being attacked by some sort of blouse monster.
To top it off, her expression was totally nonchalant. This made it extra freaky. I assume that a professional dance instructor would have a proud smile if she could make her knockers do the two-step. Alternately, if a blouse monster had attacked her, her eyes and mouth would have gone all round-looking, like the three holes in a pasty-white bowling ball. Something was clearly out of place here.
The illusion only lasted a second, but it was long enough for me to form a preferred explanation. I was hoping it was a case of dancing hooters and not a blouse monster. But just in case it was a blouse monster, my Boy Scout training kicked in, and I had already identified the child that I would shove in front of me if the monster got out.
I remember a high school classmate who could wiggle his ears so vigorously that he could – and this is just one example – guide airplanes on a runway without removing his hands from his pockets. It seems entirely possible to me that somewhere on this big ol’ planet is a woman who can control her breasts the same way. And this would come in handy when, for example, she wanted to applaud her lover’s performance but her hands were busy. Or she wanted to conduct two orchestras at the same time. Anyway, the point is that I don’t like blouse monsters.