On a day marked by resurrections, one Easter event failed to rise to the occasion: Boob Day. 75 degrees. No breeze. Sunny as an undercooked egg. It was supposed to be – it needed to be Boob Day, my first one back since a two-year Boob Day hiatus in Miami. And yet, it flopped. (Pun intended? What does it matter . . .)
Maybe it was the religious undertones that threw everyone off. After all, a holiday with such rich traditions as hiding eggs and having brunch at the club shouldn't be sullied by low cut shirts. I at least thought the Jews would step up (full disclosure: I'm marrying one). Coming on the heels of Passover, which is basically a week long South Beach diet, I figured tight, attention-grabbing clothing would be a no-brainer.
No dice. There Brooke and I were, walking the streets of New York Sunday afternoon, nary a boob in sight. Sure, there was the stray reveler – a v-neck here, an ill-fitting sundress there. But basically it was amateur hour at the cleavage show – sample act: an open front cardigan with a tank top underneath. What's your encore, a responsible pant suit? I mean, come on. I was dismayed, as was Brooke. "My boobs are out," she complained out loud. "Does everyone else think they're too good for Boob Day?" Although in everyone else's defense, Brooke's boobs are always out. (High five myself.)
But then a miraculous thing happened, and I'm not just talking about a certain carpenter's apprentice rising from the dead. Monday morning I had to get to work early. I was out on the street by 8:30, fiddling with my iPod and remembering what a truly fantastic song this is, when all of a sudden it hit me: a woman's boob. Right in the arm. And when I looked up from my iPod and turned onto Broadway, there they were, all in front of me like a rolling hillside. Shirted boobs of every ilk: side boob-friendly tanks, more-appropriate-as-pajamas tees, and the textile-defying "stretch" Oxford.
By lunch time, SoHo was awash in cleavage. It wasn't just Boob Day interruptus; it was what you might call a hooter IED. Apparently, everyone's collective abstinence from the day before had built up such an unbearable pressure that one ordinary strength Boob Day wouldn't be enough to relieve all the tension. Because you know what? Same thing this morning: Up and out early, wading into a veritable Mardi Gras. And with three more days of sunshine and mid-70's temperatures, I don't see it ending anytime soon.
That's right, folks: It's Boob Week. Cherish it. Revel in it. For all we know, it's the Halley's Comet* of cleavage. There's no data! Like the boobs themselves, we're flying fast and loose. Enjoy it while you can.
* Not to cast a pale over Boob Week, but isn't there something really sad about the fact that Halley's Comet only comes around every 75 years? I remember everyone making a big deal about it the last time it was visible in 1986 and I was like, "I'll catch it next time," because seven-year old me didn't really understand the concept of aging yet. I mean, I'll be 82 the next time Halley's Comet appears! Even if I'm still alive, I'll probably be like, "WHAT? Who's Halley? A comet? Sounds like a nice piece of tail!" (Because though incontinent, I'll still be hilarious.)