I accidentally showed my work colleague a photo of my breasts

I think I need to find a new job.

Yesterday, after our team meeting, several of my colleagues and I went to the pub.

Someone asked me how things are going in my new flat, so I launched into the saga of me buying a new rug at the weekend.

I set the scene by recapping about my feature wall in my living room, with blue and green striped wallpaper. I’ve painted the other walls blue and green to match. Lots of my things are blue and green as well, like my turquoise sofa, blue lamp and green chair.

I bought blue gloss paint for the woodwork, but after painstakingly painting the skirting boards and window frames, I realised it was the wrong shade of blue and just looked shit.

So I went back the B&Q and bought new gloss paint. This time I decided to go for yellow, because everything was so blue and green in the living room, it was starting to look like a bathroom.

The yellow gloss paint looked great, but part of me wondered if it looked like why have you painted it yellow when everything else is blue and green?

I decided I needed a rug to tie the room together, which had green and yellow in it. I looked online and in stores at basically every rug on sale in the whole UK. I found one that was absolutely perfect, and then not even find a second option to put on my shortlist. Nothing else was anywhere near what I wanted.

There was one problem with the perfect rug.

It was in Ikea.

In 2009, I vowed never to set foot in Ikea again, after I bought loads of furniture from there, and every single thing had something wrong with it, and they were terrible about sorting it out.

I had such a dilemma. I so badly wanted that rug, but I had done so well to stick to my Ikea ban for 9 years.

On Sunday, I finally caved and went to Ikea and bought the rug of my dreams.

I was plagued with doubts as I wheeled it to the till on the trolley, but as soon as I unfurled it at home, I couldn’t stop beaming. It’s so perfect.

It’s so lovely and thick underfoot, and the colours are exactly the same as my paint and things.

I think it might be the first inanimate object I’ve been sexually attracted to.

So, I relayed this fascinating tale to my colleagues, and one of them said “do you have any pictures?”

“Yes! I do!” I replied, getting my phone out. “I took one of the rug to show my mum, but hang on… none of the yellow woodwork is actually in the photo, so… no, that’s no good… let me show you the Facebook post with the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos so you can see the yellow woodwork, to get the effect of how the rug ties the room together. OK, yes! Here we are. OK, so look at that yellow window frame and… really hold that yellow in mind…”

Then, I went back from the Facebook app to the Photos app on my phone.

At this point, it’s worth adding that the night before, I was having a text conversation with Andrew until about 2am. We ended up talking about quite sexual stuff.

He is very sweet. He asked me to send him a photo of my face because he “just wanted to see me.”

I tried to take an acceptable selfie of my face, but I just couldn’t.

I’ve said before, that I find the front-facing camera like a modern day equivalent of the painting in the attic of Dorian Gray.

It’s like any ugliness or darkness in my soul appears on the screen of the front-facing camera.

No matter how content or confident I’m feeling about my appearance, the second that camera comes on, it all goes out the window.

I tried to get into different positions and take the photos from different angles, but every one made me look like a hideous, alien frog.

I have had bad skin in the past, and the front-facing camera made it look like the surface of the moon.

I was really knackered as Andrew and I had stayed up til 2am a few days earlier. Usually I don’t mind looking shattered, because when other people look tired I always imagine they’ve been up to something cool. But this time, the dark purple shadows under my eyes made me look like I’d been punched and weirdly made my eyes look like they were popping out. My eyes looked like glassy pebbles that had been placed on top of two swirling pieces of beetroot.

The thing I’m most self-conscious about is the smile grooves I’ve developed – creases from smiling, on either side of my mouth. I’m trying to make my peace with them, as they’re only going to get worse. Flatmate Joe told me quite convincingly about something he’d read, which said that lines on your face from laughing or smiling scientifically make you more attractive, it’s only lines from frowning that make you less attractive.

I find that the more dehydrated I am, the more deeply etched my smile grooves are. That night, they stood out so much, in my selfies, that they looked like they’d been drawn on in marker pen.

After a few selfie attempts, I thought no fucking way is he seeing these.

I said I couldn’t send him a photo of my face, but he was welcome to a photo of my body.

I was feeling quite confident about my breasts that day, as it was the day in my cycle when they are biggest. Also, Andrew had given me so many compliments about my body, including my stomach, which I usually hate, I was even feeling confident about that.

I found it easy to take a naked selfie to send him, which he seemed pleased with.

But then he went back to the face thing!

He genuinely seemed more interested in my face than my breasts. That’s a new one!

Anyway, I completely forgot that any of that had happened, when my work colleagues were expectantly waiting for me to open up the photos up on my phone, to see how well my Ikea rug tied the room together.

Suddenly my breasts flashed up on the screen.

“Oh, sorry, not that one…” I mumbled as I whizzed them off the screen.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

I have barely any memory of what happened next – actually showing them the photo of my living room – as I was having an out of body experience by then.

No one said anything about the breasts, and there was only really one colleague who was actually looking at my phone in that moment.

She’s pretty cool. She’s someone I’m senior to – she’s younger and has been in mental health for less time, but is already a great therapist. Sometimes when she assesses patients, I have to approve the treatment plan. Sometimes we chat in the office about the Handmaid’s Tale.

And now she’s seen my breasts.

The only way this could be any worse is if the photo had been of my other rug.

17 thoughts on “I accidentally showed my work colleague a photo of my breasts

  1. No big deal, just something for the girls to talk about behind your back, lol. Moral of the story: don’t throw all your kitchen utensils in the same drawer.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I’m so careful when showing photos to others. We often take explicit photos and while I move them to other apps, I don’t always do that right away. ☺️☺️

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s