I frequently wear short sleeved knit shirts, both in winter and in summer; so I have a variety of colors: lavender, coral, pink, green, blue, white, etc.
It doesn’t matter what color I’m wearing on any given day, invariably I spill ketchup or mustard or some other gooey condiment on the front of it. I try to be careful; I don’t think I’m particularly sloppy, but most nights still find a food spot clinging to my cleavage.
It’s frustrating, and Earl has attempted a variety of explanations. The one I think is the most apt is that, for a short person, I’m relatively large busted, thereby creating a shelf for that last drop of mayonnaise to ooze from my sandwich or that chili sauce drip to stop a downward spiral. Always helpful, Earl’s come up with various solutions too.
I should tuck my napkin under my chin. Or maybe continue wearing the chef’s apron used for cooking and sampling. In desperation, a tablecloth with a large hole in the middle might do too. As a last resort, I could eat only items that break easily in two (like carrots), need no dressing or sauce (apples, pears, bananas), or can be cut and carried to the mouth in solid chunks (steak without the bйarnaise or asparagus without the hollandaise).
None of these ideas is particularly appealing. Instead, at home I hunker down close to my dinner plate and hope for the best. In public, I take my chances and there is a cleaners out there who is glad for it. I wonder what Anna Nicole Smith and Pamela Anderson do.
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