The cultural anthropology lecture concluded, the doors of Dane Hall burst open, discharging a hurried girl pursued by a four foot mane of lustrous milk-chocolate brown hair. Lindsay needed all the speed she could muster to make it to the cafeteria for a quick refueling before hurrying off to Postmodern Literature 2401 across campus.
Unfortunately, Lindsay was not built for speed. Her double wide hips gave her an exaggeratedly girlish gait, she was out of shape and winded, and anything above a slow jog made her bosom quake so violently it threatened to destroy bra straps. Expensive custom ones.
Clutching a textbook to her chest helped inhibit the bounce, while frustrating some prying eyes. It wasn't a perfect solution; she still caught lustful looks from boys, and heard the scandalized whisperings of girls, but it helped fight the social anxiety she always felt on such a crowded campus. The walkways were packed with students on their way to class, and formed a framework for lush green commons where some enjoyed the warming spring weather by playing Frisbee, while others stretched out with a good book in a patch of sunshine.
Lindsay was staring dreamily at one such patch when a rollerblader slammed face first into her improvised chest armor at speeds approaching mach 1. The pavement met her ass with smart slap. Sure, she had plenty of padding back there, but it still stung, would probably be sore the rest of today and tomorrow. Gingerly she kneaded the expanse of denim as she surveyed the scene. The rollerblader seemed dazed but fine (luckily he was wearing a helmet), and her glasses had been knocked off her face but were OK. But the big guy rushing to help her, oblivious to their presence on the sidewalk, instantly made them not OK. She winced upon hearing the brittle snap of the plastic frames and she sighed, collected her books, assured everyone she was fine, made sure the rollerblader still babbling apologies was fine, and headed to the cafeteria, the world suddenly a very fuzzy and indistinct place.
Her uncorrected vision was poor, but that didn't prevent her from selecting one of her favorite lunches: a jumbo slice of sausage and mushroom pizza, a glistening garlic knot, and cold Dr. Pepper. She felt the need to treat herself after this morning's collision. Speaking of collisions, she brought her tray too close to her body and would have knocked over her drink with her boob had it not been for some quick thinking balance work. Sheepishly she looked up to see if anyone witnessed this embarrassing maneuver. Every face was blurrily mixed in with the next. Even squinting, it was impossible to tell if people were watching.
And for the first time in years Lindsay realized that it didn't matter one way or the other. Newfound confidence split her face into a smile, and put a wag into her hips that surprised her, made her blush and smile yet wider.
Nearsightedness resulting in reduced social anxiety?
An excellent solution when on foot. Perhaps she ends up walking everywhere she can and improves her stamina to match.
Then when she is truly relaxed and not studying she'll put on her "Spectacles of Spectacle" to for once indulge in the reactions of passerby to her incredibly zaftig chassis.
Unfortunately, Lindsay was not built for speed. Her double wide hips gave her an exaggeratedly girlish gait, she was out of shape and winded, and anything above a slow jog made her bosom quake so violently it threatened to destroy bra straps. Expensive custom ones.
Clutching a textbook to her chest helped inhibit the bounce, while frustrating some prying eyes. It wasn't a perfect solution; she still caught lustful looks from boys, and heard the scandalized whisperings of girls, but it helped fight the social anxiety she always felt on such a crowded campus. The walkways were packed with students on their way to class, and formed a framework for lush green commons where some enjoyed the warming spring weather by playing Frisbee, while others stretched out with a good book in a patch of sunshine.
Lindsay was staring dreamily at one such patch when a rollerblader slammed face first into her improvised chest armor at speeds approaching mach 1. The pavement met her ass with smart slap. Sure, she had plenty of padding back there, but it still stung, would probably be sore the rest of today and tomorrow. Gingerly she kneaded the expanse of denim as she surveyed the scene. The rollerblader seemed dazed but fine (luckily he was wearing a helmet), and her glasses had been knocked off her face but were OK. But the big guy rushing to help her, oblivious to their presence on the sidewalk, instantly made them not OK. She winced upon hearing the brittle snap of the plastic frames and she sighed, collected her books, assured everyone she was fine, made sure the rollerblader still babbling apologies was fine, and headed to the cafeteria, the world suddenly a very fuzzy and indistinct place.
Her uncorrected vision was poor, but that didn't prevent her from selecting one of her favorite lunches: a jumbo slice of sausage and mushroom pizza, a glistening garlic knot, and cold Dr. Pepper. She felt the need to treat herself after this morning's collision. Speaking of collisions, she brought her tray too close to her body and would have knocked over her drink with her boob had it not been for some quick thinking balance work. Sheepishly she looked up to see if anyone witnessed this embarrassing maneuver. Every face was blurrily mixed in with the next. Even squinting, it was impossible to tell if people were watching.
And for the first time in years Lindsay realized that it didn't matter one way or the other. Newfound confidence split her face into a smile, and put a wag into her hips that surprised her, made her blush and smile yet wider.