Recycled Booty II

In the definition of “fair”, you will never see the word “life”.

My husband owned a truck. It made sense for him to haul the recyclables to the center. Last week, he wedged the recyclables into my trunk, “to be fair.” He said.

Shuffled in with the newspapers, Ms. May, with DDD tatas and a twenty-four inch waist, smiled provocatively at me despite her imminent disposal in the magazine bin. Someone who owned a truck was in for a fair amount of trouble.

I wasn’t totally angry. I saw nothing wrong with admiring beautiful people, but in healthy ways. The women in my stepper class took turns on the machine that faced Mr. Bench Pressed 300 Pounds. We weren’t just getting an eye full, but possibly an extra twenty quality years added to our life by keeping fit. Stepping got the heart rate up and the blood pressure down. Mr. Bench pressed 300 Pounds wasn’t an 8×10 glossy, airbrushed print either.  Did I mention the man bench pressed 300 pounds which took a lot of healthy muscle?

To be fair, Mr. Bench Pressed 300 Pounds was actually a nice guy who helped with the after school program at the gym. He and his wife, the yoga instructor, traded healthy recipes with our group.

If you looked up Ms. May on the internet, you’d probably find her height, weight, and measurements. For all anyone would ever know about the woman, Ms. May could also be known as Ms. Pulls the Tails off Kittens and Eats Them for Breakfast. It’d be easy to dislike a kitten eater.

I didn’t hate May because she was beautiful, but I wasn’t sure that I liked her either. What kind of woman chanced her Dad seeing her in a corrupt form of nakedness? Were other job options unavailable to her? Was the woman lazy? Did she think getting her hands dirty objectionable, but selling her body was okay?

Maybe May would be a mother in ten years. How did one explain to a daughter the impossible tata to waist to hip ratio? A son might grow up with the notion women were objects to be ogled not heard.

If you’ve seen a man drool over a 24 oz. steak or Nolan Ryan’s arm, May’s looks weren’t special. Steaks were devoured and pitchers retired. Down the road, women aged. The collagen injections in May’s lips might begin to bunch up unnaturally. A build up of cellulite would plague her like the rest of us over thirty. Then what?

Hopefully, May had a savings account in case complications arose from the silicon beach balls jammed onto her chest cavity or from a bad back. What kind of society made a woman want to lug those puppies around? And what man felt compelled to surgically fake his junk to make a living?

I began to feel sorry for May. Minus the perverted nudity, May became a real person just like Mr. Bench pressed 300 pounds. May rode home with me.

When confronted hubby said, “I got it from work. I was going to take the magazine to hunting camp.”

Like hell. By my calculations, at least thirty people passed that magazine around like a bag of potato chips. Seriously, one man paid to see the who ha and twenty-nine men saw it for free.

May probably received a cheap flat rate of pay just like a fast food employee while her employer raked in millions. For being Employee of the Month, I hoped May at least got her name on a plaque and a special parking space.

To give the hubby a different perspective, I superimposed our daughter’s face over May’s with the caption, “posed to pay college tuition.” (Our kid didn’t play sports. Let’s hope it wouldn’t come to that.) I threw May’s issue in the trash and dumped used cat litter over it.

“Listen up. From now on and without argument, you will haul the recyclables.” I said. “And there’re a few other chores to be taken care of.”

You can bet the chores will be more distasteful than recycling booty. To be fair, life wasn’t fair.

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