During a recent bra fitting, the perky little salesgirl pronounced my size as a ’38 long.’ Well, that’s hitting a bit below the belt, I replied. “Not yet, but close,” said the little trollop. It was the last thing she said, before a D-cup closed decisively around her mouth. I don’t need more reminders of the ravages of age and gravity, dahrlings.
Happily, thanks to my other attributes, cleavage has not been an essential element of the arsenal during my mercurial rise to the penthouse of the travel profession. Although I will admit, Pumpkins, it hasn’t hurt. Old boys will be old boys. But the competition is increasingly fierce (bloody yoga pants) and the passing years are not my friends.
Since the dinkettes, like my foundation garments, do most of the heavy lifting around here, I’m free to seek inspiration for my scribbles on the Internet. That’s how I came to be watching a trailer for the new live-action Cinderella movie.
And guess what? Glass-slipper girl has got cleavage – the youthful, in-your-face kind, not the low-hanging fruit of the middle years. When Disney starts doing push-ups, it’s time for me to hang ‘em up – or pay a visit to my long-suffering surgeon.
