The Flasher

There's this boy. We'll call him Jefferson. Jefferson is about the same age as my brother Colby (16) and our families are friends. A few years ago, both our families went up Poudre Canyon to Picnic Rock. It's a fun place where you can, well, picnic, as well as play in the river and such.

At this gathering, I was wearing a swimsuit with a halter neck that clasped in the back. Don't ask me how, but that little clasp came undone as I was playing in the river and before I knew it, I was free-boobin'.

Jefferson's bulging eleven year-old eyes were the only ones to see my breasteses in all their raw glory.

Unfortunately for Jefferson's future wife, her boobies will always play second fiddle to mine. (After all, how can you be satisfied with the Rockies when you have seen the Himalayas?) I kid, I kid. They were more like the Great Plains. BUT, I am happy to report, they have nearly graduated to sand dune status.

Anyway, we all had a good laugh at this and moved on with our lives.

Or so I thought.

Jefferson is now a 16-year old in my ward back home here in Fort Collins, which has made the past three Sundays progressively more awkward.

Sunday #1:

Brock: "Hey Jefferson, you and I share a special bond, y'know."

(It takes Jefferson three seconds to realize what Brock is reffering to, and he runs from the room blushing.)

Sunday #2:

Colby (in Sunday School): "Hey Kristi, try to keep your shirt on."

Sunday #3:

Jefferson, to Colby: "Tell Brock that I saw them first."

SOLUTION: BURQINIS FOREVVVERRRRR.

(google it)