There was already a text message on my phone when I woke up this morning. It was from my friend John in
“It’s not Boob Day yet. But with 72 degrees today and 77 degrees tomorrow, it’s definitely Boob Day Eve.”
I closed my phone and smiled one of those half-hearted smiles, like moms do in movies when their kid decides to move to the big city in order to chase their dream of becoming a fashion designer despite the odds stacked against them. Because when I opened the shade in my bedroom and let the abundant sunlight pour in, I realized something sad.
This will be the first time in my life that I will miss Boob Day.
Boob Day, of course, is the day in
All winter long they have been bundled up, keeping their fun bags in the toy chest. But suddenly, it starts to warm up. Usually there are a few false alarm Boob Days where it’s mild and sunny and all the hoochies jump the gun and hit the streets in tube tops. Don’t be fooled. Though these days are fun for their novelty, they aren’t the big event. No, the genuine Boob Day is always marked by a string of warm, sunny days, culminating in one unusually hot day. And on that hot day, it’s like the heavens open . . . and the heavens have great tits.
Boob Day is probably the most underappreciated holiday in the world. Take all the Salvation Army donations during Christmas, all the confetti on New Year’s Eve, and all the fireworks from the Fourth of July and you still couldn’t match the amount of good will inspired by the mind-blowing wave of low-cut tank tops, “business casual” halters, and one-size-too-small sundresses that floods the streets.
I know what you’re thinking: WTF, Dan? EVERY DAY in
woman ’s shirts. And I will miss it.
And just in case the open wound didn’t have enough salt of the earth in it, this year promises to be a real blockbuster: Because the intensity of Boob Day is in direct proportion to the duration and suckiness of the winter season, from what people have told me about how this winter just dragged on and on and on, I imagine this Boob Day is going to be something special.
So everyone, celebrate in my absence. It’s your duty. Gawk, ogle, drool even. Whistle, woof, stare so hard that you walk right into a open man hole. Hell, take pictures. With a telephoto lens maybe. Email them to me. Whatever you feel is necessary. Just remember that it’s not degrading, it’s a celebration. And I wish you all the breast.