Busty Women Running Are Actually Americas Greatest Heroes

If you think about it, there's really nothing more heroic.

-Moms that pick up cars because their babies are under them, yes, amazing, but that's a reaction born of instinct. And duh you don't want a baby squash.

-Firefighters. Pretty heroic, but it's also their job. That's what they do for money. To pay da bills. When it comes time to jump in the smoked out condo, they don't have a choice.

-Soldiers. Similar to firefighters.

-Whistleblowers at shady companies. It's probably more likely you'll get a movie made about you than have your life ruined.

-People without appendages who compete in Special Olympics. You gotta do this if you're gonna not be a sad sack with no legs. Like, you just gotta.

Which brings us back to my original thesis. If you're a busty lady, A you didn't choose it and you can't really unchoose it. It's not your job. You might get a benefit here and there but I would guess the cons grossly outweigh. (Buttoning up shirts, cat calls, shopping crises.)

B you don't have to work out. You don't. Because no one HAS to work out and a lot of people don't. But you are doin it. You're out there on the Lake Michigan Trail plodding along tryna stay in some kinda shape just because it's good for you and you want to be healthy for yourself, friends, and family.

It is so easy to not work out. You can be halfway out the door for a jog and then hear an episode of Fraiser coming on and it's curtains for those calories. But you, you busty lady you, you have strength I do not have. You got around all of life's usual distraction AND your own massive enemies. If I was gearing up and part of my outfit was a steel-cut brassiere that is still gonna give way to my unbearable chest, practically breaking my back with every hop but simultaneously cutting into my mid-waist fat because it's trying to hold things together, I would straight up never ever workout.

So cheers, ma'ams. You are my heroes.

What Is Appropriate (Huh)

"I love when we talk about what is appropriate for young girls." Hill Gchats me. She is at the front of our giant lecture class we team-TA, and I am in the back, while the 150 film students (mostly men) discuss Kick Ass and how that child was overly-sexualized despite there being no mention or allusion to sex with/for her in the film.

"Her clothes are tight," someone says, referring to the spandex superhero costume she wears. Huh.

I wrote "Huh?" in the feedback section of a student essay after "I don't know what you're saying in paragraph two." Then I quoted the nonsensical sentence. This guy accosts me after class: "Your feedback was unprofessional, rude, and not helpful at all."

Baffled, I followed his finger to the "Huh." I explained I meant I didn't understand, but he attacked again. And then he stood there arguing his paper was much better than I graded it. Meanwhile, he cannot look me in the face. His eyes keep dashing down to my low hanging wooden necklace and back up and down and back up and down.

In our improv show today, Skars was explaining a game, so I walked across the stage to grab my water bottle and two goofy guys sandwiched me with their bodies. I gave a faux shriek. This is part of ensemble work. Skars turned around and said, "C'mon, Alice! Get it together!" and the entire audience laughed. I scampered offstage, and from behind the flats I hear Skars, "Always trying to get attention. Look at how she's dressed!" I cry out in mock anger, "I dress like a librarian!" But it's true. I'm wearing a knee length purple dress and an extra large knit sweater that makes any curve of my body impossible to see.

Last week everyone at work got an e-mail with dress code reminders. "That's weird," I thought. "Who is this for?" Everyone looks good at work. The next morning one of my superiors comes directly up to me. No good morning. Just, "Did you get the dress code e-mail?" I say yes, and she raises her eyebrows.  I have no words. I mutter, "Is this not...?" And I reach for my bra strap, which admittedly is peeking around my shoulder, but before I can even apologize I'm hit with, "I see three violations in one outfit." I look down. It's my knee-length orange polka dot dress. I am only quizzical, so she says, "It's a bit short." I stand and show her how it is much longer than my fingertips. "Well," she says, "Definitely not shorter than that." And then she says, "And cleavage." The dress completely covers my whole front. There is not an option of anything else. I show her the cut. I say, "But, you can't see anything" to which she replies, "I could when I walked by." It's not possible! She tells me to wear a sweater and grimaces half-heartedly like, "Yup, those are the rules, wish they weren't, bummer!" My male co-worker was next to me the whole time. Listening and watching someone else define what parts of my sack of flesh that can and cannot be seen.

I love when we talk about what is appropriate for young girls. Huh.