Once I came home, I spent a good ten or fifteen minutes in front of the mirror examining my own. And I am pleased to report that they look fine. Nothing there. Oh sure, a tuft of manly hair on both of them, but the skin is taught and the flesh is firm. There is both springiness and smoothness, as one would hope.
Not so everyone else.
There is nothing quite like wrinkled old oxster.
Given the weather we've been having lately (70°+), an awful lot of that is on display. Under certain circumstances, clothing that exposes armpits to the world may indeed be called for, but sleeveless blouses on elderly matrons, or strange athletic garb on geezers, is unjustified on public transport; dessicated elderly pits are not a pretty sight.
Especially not all wrinkled and spotted.
Thanks, but no thanks.
The only acceptable naked pits are on females who are fresh-looking and healthy. If they haven't been sweating, and lack tattoos.
Not too robust, please.
Everyone else should dress far less lightly.
The bus ride the other evening was educational. One woman kept holding on to the pole even while seated. By reaching across another person. Which meant that her right-arm hazard was barely six inches from the face her fellow passenger. Who looked a wee bit green. And delicately tried to persuade her neighbor that there WAS a pole much closer to her.
With no luck.
Both of them were Chinese Americans, by the way.
The only reason why that datum is relevant is that there are times when a naked Chinese American armpit could be appealing. There have been occasions when I have found it, or both of them, to be unobjectionable. And possessed of considerable aesthetic merit, even something which one should encourage.
A well-sculpted upper arm can make a moment memorable.
Alas, this was not one of those moments.
It may take a while to forget.
My pits are fine.
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