So there I am sitting on the couch at my friends house enjoying some moments of fellowship. It's a very comfortable, if not slightly bohemian, setting with her and I sharing opposite ends of the couch and her erstwhile boyfriend occupying what she calls the "princess chair." After many moments catching up on each others lives and discussing her decidedly unique decor, I fell silently upon a forbidden observation.
My friend had a very noticeable "pooch."
For those not up on their anatomy, the female pooch is located just below the bellybutton and just above the nether realms and is analogous to the man's love handles. Under ordinary circumstances, the female pooch goes mostly unnoticed, especially since most guys have their attentions turned to areas above and below said area. Having known this particular friend for about a couple or four years, I'd pretty much stopped noticing the extracurricular areas on her and had my attention drawn to the baked potato-sized rise that sat just underneath the waistband of her skirt.
Now at this point, the observation itself wasn't bad. It was what the observation drove me to do that caused the mayhem that ensued.
Throwing caution to the wind, I reached over and planted a firm hand on the mound of flesh and gave it a playful shake.
And with a smile generally reserved for Prozac users, I cooed, "That is so cute." I awaited, still smiling. Now one would think that, being a veteran in the war between the sexes, I would know better then to broach the subject of a woman's weight. Sadly, my ordinarily flawless logic failed me by providing me with this nugget:
- I'm not dating her.
- I'm not married to her.
- I'm not banging her
- Therefore, I can say anything I like.
. . .
She may talk to me again in another ten or twelve years.
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