It was late afternoon, and as I exited the elevator, I was decidedly relieved that the day was almost over. As I walked down the hallway, I passed a man heading to the board room. I looked the stranger in the face, my best non-serial killer smile pasted on, ready to be social.
Except this man wasn't looking at my face. His eyes were singularly zeroed in on my chest.
I was shocked. While I do have an ample bosom, I do not actively try to draw attention to it while I am at work. The rules of work must be respected, after all, and those who know me understand that if they are crossing a line they will be drop-kicked back immediately.
I let this pass without incident; he did not know me, and I was in a hurry to go home. I needed to stop at the store and the traffic was likely to be horrid at this time of the day.
As I walked the aisles of Walmart, looking for the vitamins, I felt eyes on me. I looked up, and there was a man at the endcap. But he wasn't staring at me. He was staring at my chest. I glared at him, and he finally noticed. As he beat a hasty retreat, he did have the grace to look embarrassed. Shaking my head, I moved on to the pet food, and then made my way to the check out.
As the young cashier was ringing up my purchases, I noticed that he was trying very hard not to stare at my chest. His eyes would move, as if pulled by magnets, from what he was scanning, and stop when they had risen far enough. Outrage began to flood my system, and I was about to unleash a full verbal assault. I looked down, the calm before the storm.
And there, right above my right breast, was a large splotch of barbecue sauce, left over from my lunch.