I’m not gonna lie. I love a good tan. I will also confess to incorporating the act of tanning into my day. As soon as the weather turns and I can be outside in the sun, I make a point of catching those healing rays, defrosting myself from winter. In so doing, I become a happier, browner me. I love a little color…Or “culuh” as one might say in the New York area.
I often feel pressure to lie about being a purposeful tanner because it seems a waste of valuable time – time that could be spent writing, working out, balancing a budget, de-cluttering my house, engaging with my children – a host of things that most would consider a better, more productive use of my time. I run into friends, and our exchange goes something like:
Friend: Have you been away?
Me: Away? Me? No.
Friend: But you’re so tan!
Me: Oh, well, I’ve been out and about, and you know – Semitic. Our people and the desert, and you know, we’re quick to tan.
Of course, I’m Jewish, but I don’t know how Semitic I am. I mean, I’m Eastern European from way back, which could indicate that I come from Eastern European converts, and there’s nothing Semitic about me, but for the purposes of small talk, my answer seems to suffice.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that the sun makes me happy in a way that all of those afore mentioned, supposedly more worthy things make other people happy. Just a small dose a day puts me in a good mood.
By the end of the summer, I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment for having achieved a noticeably darker complexion than my sallow, pallid norm, so much so that when my good friend noticed my summer hue, I decided to share with her my tan line.
I pulled down my tank top so she could marvel at the BEFORE and AFTER except that what I had not considered was that the tan line was lower than I remembered and the bra I was wearing that day uplifted with extreme proficiency. I accidentally flashed my friend my boob. Total tata. Areola and a hint of nip.
She laughed, and I laughed, and that was that, and yet I felt that much closer to her. How could I not? I mean, it’s not every day your share full breastage with your friends.
Because she did not whip hers out in return, you may wonder if I feel that our friendship is somehow as lopsided as two breasts sitting in opposing positions, which you only discover in the bathroom when you look in the mirror and you see that your nipples are pointing in different directions and the ladies are latitudinally divergent. As a matter of fact, I was relieved that I had not been in her shoes. I guess I’d rather be the exposer than the exposee. It doesn’t have to be a … tit for tat situation … to understand our deep friendship.
I think it’s appropriate to say that my friend and I are genuinely Bosom Buddies. Note that the expression only incorporates one bosom, which feels authentic considering the fact that only one bosom was revealed. But even if there were many girls playing Peek-a-Boob, we would never be Bosoms Buddies – plural. In addition to being way too difficult to say – go ahead and try it – the bosom in Bosom Buddies does refer an actual boob.
Originally, the English term was Bosom Friend, but the Americans, who appreciate alliteration substituted Buddy for Friend. The first usage cited was in 1590 when the breast or bosom was “considered as the seat of thoughts and feelings.” You would only share or “unbosom” your deepest thoughts to your closest friend.
Well, Dear Friend who is undoubtedly reading this post, know that I have and would unbosom myself to you any day. I am confident the feeling is mutual – though flashing full hootage is completely optional.