I took the Squirrelly to the pediatric dentist yesterday. The receptionist was a girl in her mid 20’s wearing a push-up bra and an unconscionably low-cut top. She remained seated as she reviewed the papers I had to fill out so I had to look down at her, except when she would briefly stand, lean way over the counter, and point out some clause on the medical waiver form.
Dear Women on Earth: please knock this off. Maybe you think you’re doing us men a favor, that anything that increases the net sum of cleavage in the world is A-OK in our book. And I’m sure that’s true for some. But for those of us who were raised to believe that openly gawping at the breasts of a woman two feet in front of you is rude, your heaving bosoms — while no doubt a real treat under other circumstances — are an undue burden upon us. You have no idea how exhausting it is to concentrate on whatever you’re saying about my son’s dental coverage while 85% of my mental resources have been diverted to my eyeballs to prevent them from drifting southward; you have no idea what a drag it is that, in order to go from looking from your face to looking at the paper in front of me, I have to detour all the way around your chest — feigning a glance at a wall clock en route — or move my head so quickly that I risk whiplash.
Don’t get me wrong: I loves me some cleavage. In a bar, at a party, on the beach. But at the pediatric dentist? Come on. That’s practically entrapment. I mean, who’s your target audience here? Rule of thumb: if you’re in a profession where you routinely interact with married men toting one year-olds, we’ll take your mammalian credentials as an article of faith — no need to flash ’em.