I need to work. I need to write. I’m on deadline. But I have bigger issues. Or actually, smaller, saggy, deflated ones.
Bumpy, lumpy cyst filled boobs.
Husband is a self-proclaimed boob man. He likes boobs, big ones. Apparently, with me, he chose the filler between the ears over the fluff inside the bra ‘cuz really, the only time I had enough boob to bounce was when I was pregnant.
Which was pretty much the entire 1990s.
Afterwards, I welcomed the advent of the wonderbra with such joy and enthusiasm I can only imagine how my sister ancestors reveled in news of the tampon.
I am a feminist.
However, I would enjoy nice(r) rack.
I’m not asking for much. Just what what’s mine. Or what used to be mine. I don’t want boobs screaming FAKER-FAKEY-FAKE. I don’t want high school boobs or stripper boobs or desperate, divorced boobs. I’m happily attached to mine.
Many of my friends, sadly, aren’t, because theirs turned out to be malicious, homicidal maniac boobs so they had to cut the fuckers loose. Which I will too, should mine try to kill me. But other than, you know, cancer, they’re fine. Sort of.
Does that make me evil? Self-absorbed? Stupid? Desperate? Sexist? I think not. I am woman. I have boobs. I like boobs, or rather, I like the ones I used to know. These new ones suck. And hurt.
Little is fine, just bring back the ones that stay put and don’t ooze out the emergency exit, sliding from under the bra by lunchtime. Or swim aimlessly inside a bra like a sad, lonely goldfish bagged at the carnival. These are water balloons with slow, decades long leaks, loaded with lumps and bumps that send me to the squeeze factory and ultrasound mama every 6 months, “just to be sure.”
I fed 4 kids into the new millennium with these babies, and my boobs have a story to tell. I just really want to rewrite a nice, perky happy 34A ending.
I want the old ones back.
And these days, not for nothing, Leftie hurts. A lot.
So it’s with vain apprehension rather than death defying fear that a chunk of Leftie may be hacked away. It’s not that I’m afraid it’s cancer: I’m not. I’m sure it’s the same cyst infected mammaries that have plagued me midlife, and erupted literally at the oh-so-joyous-momentous arrival of menopause.
Or peri-menopause. Whatever. (What is the time limit for peri? Anybody know? Will I need a full beard to claim menopause, and a few chin hairs to claim peri? Wacked periods peri; no period is menopause? I need to google this.)
And if they take out the painful erupting volcanic complex cyst, what exactly fills that void? Really, what I don’t need is more wiggle room. Got plenty of wiggle.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they can take a small piece of my chub rub, and strategically place it in my brassiere locale…just a thought. My boob thoughts of the day.
ps. also, someone tell me why I have to drive to mammo central to pick up films and deliver to new boob doc? Then bring them back? This is like the frickin’ card catalog circa 1977. Should I go to a doc that doesn’t have internet access or the ability to retrieve and view films digitally? There’s something quite primitive about asking the worried patient to do all this leg work. Or boob work. Whatever.
pps. Am twittering about my great boob adventure should you be interested. Or at least I THINK I am. Not really sure how to work “the Twitter” quite yet. But I cuss a lot there. Just sayin’.