I was at the bowling alley. It was a Friday night, after all, and all the hipster 30somethings were. . . somewhere else. But not, I, I was at the bowling alley, slinging beer and tapping away at ‘real’ work on Otto (my laptop).

I was nestled to one side of the bar, working away on some email campaign hooha when I decided it would be a good idea to eavesdrop on the Premium Wood guy and his friend with the red stocking gap and geek-boy glasses.

So with my head bent intently over Otto, typing lakdjfadpsoifjadsoifj over and over again, I tuned my good ear to the boys at the end of the bar.

‘Dude,’ Premium Wood said, ‘I’m not kidding, she’s smokin’.’
‘What?’ Geek-boy glasses said.
‘She wore a low cut shirt once and none of us could take our eyes off her,’ Premium Wood said.
‘I don’t see it,’ Geek-boy glasses said.
‘She’s got this tattoo,’ Premium Wood said making a triangle with his fingers and placing on his chest, ‘Of superman right here. It’s sexy.’
‘Really?’ Geek-boy glasses said.
‘I’m not kidding, any chick who’d tattoo superman on her tits is smokin’.’

At this point I stopped listening, because I had gone deaf. See, my ears had melted because I was blushing something furious.

They were talking about me. Me! I was stunned. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know if I should be oddly pleased or completely offended. I was conflicted. The feminist in me should have been offended that these men were discussing my breasts so nonchalantly– with me no more than 5 feet away. I should have been offended that they saw me as nothing more than a set of tits and a superman tattoo. Clearly, they should realize that I am a smart, talented lady with more to offer than a set of superman emblazoned tits.

But then there was the low self-esteem fat girl side of me that was thrilled. I’ve never been the kind of girl that men think is all sexy and stuff. I don’t often wear revealing clothing, I have messy hair, and I don’t wear makeup. I’m not what most would consider sexy in the least. Sure, the men who think messy-haired, glasses-wearing book nerds are sexy think I’m the bomb’but those men are few and far between. And, oftentimes, those men aren’t the kind of men who talk about smokin’ tits in mixed company.

I’m not a stranger to over-hearing people talk about my body. However, what they usually say isn’t anywhere near the neighborhood of positive. I’m 6’5′ and overweight. People have no problem pointing out such obvious things. People have no problem belittling people who are different, and don’t fit the mold. This was different and I didn’t know how to handle it.

So there I sat with my conflicting emotions, melted ears, bright red face, and a page full of asihfapdfhaihgid, when Opie stuck his big, non-red head in front of the screen.

‘Why are you so red?’
‘I dunno,’ I said.
‘Well then young lady, get me a tasty,’ he said.

And as I hopped off the bar stool to get him a Bud Light, I held my head a little higher and smiled to myself. . . because, at least for a little while, I was smokin’.