Life Lesson #8: Work with “The Ladies”: Learn to Make the Best of a Boob Situation

“Listen, if you got them, show them off. Because I swear, mine used to be bigger than yours, and look at me now! This by the way, happened after I was pregnant with you, my dear. So think about that.”

Please note the above quote is not verbatim. It is, however, a very good paraphrase of what my mom has said to me many times over the last eight or so years.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the ‘them’ she refers to are my boobs.

I have heeded her advice well. Maybe, at times, a little too much, but all in good fun, I (and mom) would say. And I promise to stop the first time someone complains.

My mom’s sound advice has proved helpful when I bartend. I should probably give her a cut of the tips I make. But that would be kind of weird: ‘Hey mom, here’s 50 bucks. It’s from last night. Thanks for the pearls of wisdom and the sweet genetics!’

A friend, who is aware of both my tendency to wear low cut shirts and my ability to work behind a bar, owns a small percentage of a bar in the midtown area. Last week, he sent out an email requesting that any of us who wanted to guest bartend, just give the bar a call and mention his name.

I, of course, took him up on the offer. For several reasons: First, even though I make a decent salary, I barely make it from one paycheck to another, no matter what. I always wonder when I get a raise or salary increase how I ever lived on what I was making before. I know this isn’t good. But he who casts the first stone is probably just as broke as I am. Second, I’ve been trying to save up money for The Big Move at the end of the summer. This involves putting money into a savings account as soon as my paychecks are deposited into my checking account every two weeks. It sucks. Enough said. Third, I used to bartend as a summer job and have guest bartended many times since. Therefore, I find it to be a pretty easy thing to do. Anything I don’t know, I ask. Or I make it up. Because after you’re seven beers and four shots in, I can guarantee you have no clue what I’m putting in front of you anyway. Fourth, and last, bartending is a ridiculously easy, and on the whole, enjoyable experience. My friends come, hopefully they get a deal for the night, and I get to drink for free. What beats that?

I gave the manager Al a call, mentioned who I was, as well as my friend’s name. Apparently my friend had already given Al a heads-up on me (something along the lines of being a quick learner, hot, and with experience) and I was told I could work this past weekend.

I was happy to get a shift and grateful to my friend, but I was also a little nervous. While putting in a good word for me, a.k.a. talking me up, my friend had given Al some preconceived notions. And now I had to live up to them.

On the eve of the midtown bartending stint, I donned my black ensemble, had a quick glass of wine to help smooth over some belly jitters, and hopped into a cab. By the time I pulled up to the bar, I wondered if another shirt choice would have been better or if I could have gotten away with my boots rather than sneakers, but it was too late. It was show time.

I went inside and looked around. The place was pretty packed, a spill-over from a midtown bar crawl that was just about to end. But I soon spotted a guy that had the telltale signs of ‘bar manager’ written all over him: standing in the back against a wall, chewing on a tiny red straw; shifty eyes that seemed to dart from one drunk girl to the next, an outfit that looked like it had been (and probably was) worn since the night before. I headed over and introduced myself.

I got the feeling that I was immediately being scrutinized. I tried cracking a joke that I don’t even think he heard. Let me tell you, it’s rough knowing you’re being judged solely on how you look.

A few minutes later, maybe because Al thought I passed his test or maybe because he simply didn’t have time to do anything about it if not, I was thrown into the two-by-four mayhem behind the bar. Two bartenders where already there and I quickly introduced myself.

Bartender Numero Uno: Gorgeous. Petite, dark hair, reasonably sized, but most certainly fake, boobs.

Bartender Numero Dos: Gorgeous. My height, super skinny, no boobs. And about to end her shift.

“I’m actually finishing up. She’s working with you,” she said as she made a head nod to someone who just walked in behind me.

I turned around and can guarantee my jaw dropped.

The Real Bartender Numero Dos: Holy shit. I don’t even notice her face at first. Because her fake boobs are so big, and so barely covered, I have to fight the urge to not look down and poke them. Because they are that ridiculous, I can’t help but wonder what the hell they feel like.

“Hiiiii, you working with us tonight?” she asked as she stepped behind the counter.

Did she mean ‘us’ as in her and her giant boobs? Or did she mean ‘us’ as in her, her giant boobs and Bartender Numero Uno? Or did she mean ‘us’ as in her, her giant boobs, Bartender Numero Uno, and Bartender Numero Uno’s ample silicone?

“Yea, I’m working with you ladies,” I answered, assuming that was the safest way to go with that question.

“Great, well welcome,” she said as she slid past me and got herself situated.

After I had a few minutes to absorb the goods, I finally took a moment to notice the rest of her. While not ugly by any means, she wasn’t that great in the face either. Almost a little haggard too, and definitely a good six years older than me. Thank the lord for the smallest of favors, I guess.

At this point, I had no choice but to jump in and get started.

The crowd was easy enough and the place kept getting more and more crowded. H.F.T. was already there when I first showed up, and had brought her boyfriend and his friends. Unfortunately, H.F.T. had been at the all-day-drinking event and was in no shape to realize anyone else’s shape. I needed my friends to show up fast—I needed someone to share in this ridiculous mammary experience with me.

Luckily, the posse started trickling in. First, Earl and a few of his friends. Next, a friend’s sister and her group. And finally, Liberace and Madonna.

Liberace came up to the bar and said something along the lines of ‘Hey hot momma, give me a beer.’ I twisted open a Miller Lite, put it down next to him, and gestured to Bartender Numero Dos. I didn’t even need to say anything.

“Holy shit! Those are fucking huge,” the man who doesn’t even like women yelled.

“I know!! Tell me about it! It’s fucking ridiculous back here,” I sighed in relief.

“Oh my God, Penny. What is up with Bandeau?!” Madonna came over and asked.

At first, I’m not sure what she meant. And then, as I look over at Numero Dos, who is putting money at the register, I burst into laughter.

With her back to us, Dos looks as if all she’s wearing is a two-inch thick strip of fabric across her back, much like a bandeau bra top. The front is not much better: it’s basically the size of a bikini that a five-year old might be wearing.

“You know, if that thing she’s using as a shirt fell off, I don’t think anyone would even notice anymore it’s so small,” Madonna went on to observe.

“You know, the other bartender is fake, too,” I pointed out.

“Yea, we could tell,” Liberace replied.

“I’ve never in my life felt so small!” I exclaimed.

“At least yours are REAL!” is the response I get.

Which I completely agree with, of course. But being behind that bar Saturday night, it made no difference to anyone with a penis. Numero Dos probably didn’t even see one set of iris’ that night (besides mine, briefly) because everyone’s eyes were glued to her chest. And Numero Uno, while artificially enhanced by only half of what Numero Dos was pumped with, was so gorgeous that anyone who found Dos too large decided to go to her instead.

And so, I spent my night serving my friends, the few guys way too shy and/or embarrassed to talk to Uno or Dos, and the women who decided to settle for at least being served by the real things rather than the surgically enhanced.

At first, I was kind of upset. No one likes to be the most unattractive or least noticed of the bunch. Especially in a situation so obvious—if you’ve ever been behind a bar, you know what I mean. Everyone is looking in your direction trying to get your attention. But what you notice even more is when everyone is trying to avoid your eye contact in order to get the attention of someone else.

But as I stood there, having yet another shot with my friends and sneaking them another beer free of charge, I remembered the reasons why I took the gig in the first place, particularly money and free booze for me. And no matter how much people were tipping Uno and Dos more than me, it was all getting pooled in the end and split three ways. Suckers.

And at that moment, I realized,

Life Lesson # 8: Someone’s always going to have a shirt that’s made of less fabric than mine, someone’s always going to be a lot hotter than me, and someone’s always going to make me feel totally inadequate as a human being. But I don’t really care. Because I can still have a great time, I can probably make fun of them with my friends for one reason or another, and in the end, I might even be able to find a way to mooch off their assets.

And that is worth way more than however much money they might have dropped for those melons.