Or breasts for that matter?

At what point in a man’s life does he grow beyond referring to a woman’s breasts as "a chest?" As in… "So, he was dating this fat chick… What? She was. And there’s a point to my saying that. I think she had a big chest, which might have made her just look heavier than she really was, you know? Well, you know, it can kind of take over, and it’s all you see, her… chest."

All I can think when he says this: You must stop watching Jersey Shore. Then I think: he’s still that kid. The high school boy in him just stands up sometimes, digging his way to the surface, reminding me without a long drawn out story of "Wait, I think that was his name… anyway… wait, what was I saying? Oh, right, so…" that he was once a boy. A boy who was nervous around girls. A boy who hadn’t even seen Notting Hill because that wouldn’t come for years. A boy who was had to work up courage, a kid afraid of a telephone, a hallway, a locker room. And I love the innocence of it. The reminder of who he was long before me, when a girl had a "chest." Not a rack, not tits, yams, hams, breasts, or dinners, but a "chest," one that usually came with a padlock and front-closure bra. When the getting was hard, when it was earned, when love was measured in bases yet somehow still felt free.