It is that point in the party where everyone is leaning in a little too closely and speaking a little too loudly. We have stopped talking about middle school and started talking about boobs.

“Mine are bigger.” She tells me. I don’t really need to answer. First of all MINE are bigger but second of all I don’t really need to have this conversation.

Earlier in the evening the two of us were sitting together by the fire pit strategizing about our party plan. We both anticipating an early night. A few hours later I am saying my good byes while she is comparing size.

“Mine are bigger” she insists leaning in towards me until we are chest to chest. They may not be bigger, but they are definitely more firm. Jab. Jab. Jab. I try to pull away from her but the counter is behind me.

 

We are here to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. We have made it through Canadian Trivia (6 time zones, Kiefer Sutherland, Newfoundland) and discussed what the fuck to do about white privilege. (who the fuck knows) We have each said the word sore-y at least 20 times. We have devoured turkey and gravy and politely disposed of a weird blue cheese walnut crostini (sounds good but don’t try it.) We have asked after each other’s children and businesses. I have ranted about the anti-semitic history of cotillion (which it turns out I have completely fabricated.)

I have talked about vulnerability and death with my friend who is poised and stoic.

So many of these things leave me spinning. Racism, death, Kiefer Sutherland. They are all pools of mystery. There are so many things that confuse me. I find myself muttering “you don’t know what you don’t know but you know that you don’t know it.”

In response I hear:

“I KNOW that mine are bigger” as a pair of beautiful breasts slam into my sternum.

At this point I feel I have to stand up for my boobs because they can’t stand up for themselves.  I decide to stick with the facts.”My bra size is a 40G” Although swaying she is not swayed. “It’s my boots.” she tells me. If I didn’t have my boots on yours would be bigger.

“I think you are getting confused between boots and boobs.” I offer.

“Yes. If I didn’t have my boots on your boobs would be bigger.”

We don’t seem to have worked this out.

Maybe things will be clear next year. Until then we can blame Canada. And buy some bigger boots.

 

 

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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

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