Martha McSloptit

It seems to me that everyone has at least one thing they would change about their appearance. For the lucky few, it's just that one thing. For others (names seem unnecessary), the list could go on like no one's business.

While I was enjoying delectable (a.k.a. low fat healthy barf) chicken soup for lunch today, I got to be in a bit of hurry. It's bound to happen when you only have a half hour to break bread with the coworkers and bitch about the day's events. Unbeknownst to me, a large, solitary drop of broth landed right on the ladies. Leave it to my gay male coworker to notice.

I wish I could say that this wasn't even close to be an everyday occurrence, but what kind of proud card-carrying "shelf" club member would I be? Not a good one, my friends. To us, spilling anything to attract even more unnecessary attention to the chestal region just comes with the territory. As does buying giganto-bras that you could swaddle a small child in. And yes, these bras only come in Grandma's Wrinkly Skin beige tone.

So, as I was walking around today with this seemingly HUGE stain on my shirt in a not-so-good spot, I got to thinking how much I loathe my own chestal region. It's just there, sticking out, waiting to ogled or stared at and even envied some days by people who if they were smart would realize they're the lucky ones for being so flat. If they dribbled toothpaste on their shirt, someone would just say "Oh, they dribbled toothpaste on their shirt." Not so for members of the shelf club, where the toothpaste stain seems to take on a life of its own and starts doing a conga line consisting of toothpaste, salivary amylase, and whatever product the person tried to use to get rid of the stain only to make it even more noticeable.

Maybe I'm just mad because I made a boo-boo and someone pointed it out. I hate screwing up and I hate it even more when people point it out to everyone at the lunch table. Yet just another sideshow attraction in my freak show of a life.