The Battle of Raleigh

At the Raleigh Airport today, a young woman sat several seats away from me and began an intense, animated, 10-minute battle with her badly misbehaving left breast. She was wearing a sun dress, and as she sat down, ol’ Lefty made a break for it. She started wrestling with it, trying to stuff it back in its nest, pulling up her strap with her left hand while pushing her breast down with her right, like a magician trying to stuff a stubborn white rabbit back into an undersized top hat. Just when it seemed like the situation was under control, she bent down for her laptop and, seeing a fresh opportunity to escape and nothing but unimpeded floor beneath it, her bosom ran to daylight once more.  The battle began afresh, the lady’s elbows flailing like a faith healer trying to hold down a possessed teenager. She grabbed at it with authority and with a look on her face that clearly expressed what she was thinking: “I’ve had about enough of you, young lady! Now you settle down and stay in your room and don’t let me see you again!” After several more minutes of pushing, squeezing, strap-yanking and adjusting, Lefty was back in place. Temporarily. As she sat there, it began creeping back out. Like a kid trying to sneak down the steps without getting caught, Lefty was on the brink of another jump and run when the young lady caught it. This time, she gave it one good, authoritative push, reached into a bag and pulled out a denim jacket which she buttoned up to her throat. “There. I locked your door. You’re not going anywhere!”