When I was 15, all I wanted in the world was a Pair of Knockers. With a Pair of Knockers, I would be popular, beautiful, smart, and successful. With a Pair of Knockers, I would have a boyfriend, a car when I turned 16, straight teeth with no braces, and invitations to loads of parties on the weekends.
Alas, it was not to be so. My A-cups and I joined the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, and we stayed there, fair and square, for the better part of 15 years. We didn’t serve as the President of the IBTC, but we were definitely in the executive cabinet.
Fortunately, DH is not a boob man. Or at least, he wasn’t back then.
When I turned 29, a miracle happened. I got pregnant (not the miracle) and all of a sudden, I had BREASTS (miracle). My little A-cups blossomed into great big Hooters of Love in preparation for the birth of the baby…and they never left. For the next ten years, I’d strut my stuff in front of the mirror periodically and admire something that I’d never had before—CLEAVAGE.
Lately, though, I’ve had a bit of a love/hate relationship with my breasts. Specifically, my left breast. It seems that when I (dutifully) signed up for a physical a few weeks ago that it was truly a full-service physical. I starved myself, gave at least a half-pint of blood samples, peed in a cup, and was poked, prodded, and otherwise examined, including a thorough breast exam. “My, you have firm breast tissue,” remarked Kimberly the nice Physician’s Assistant. “Uh, thanks—I think.” Is firm breast tissue a good thing? I assume so, especially since neither the babies nor Eric ever complained. I don’t have to tuck my tits into the waistband of my jeans yet, so I’m thinking that yeah, firm breast tissue is a good thing.
And that is where the great betrayal started. It seems that my left breast—the one right over my heart—has a bit of an irregularity. “You mean you haven’t noticed this before?” asked Kimberly while palpitating my breast. That was quickly followed by a “Does it hurt when I do this?”
Well, yeah, that did kind of hurt when you poked it like that. And no, I haven’t noticed that before. To tell you the truth, I don’t pay much attention to my body unless it’s got a specific ache or pain, and I generally don’t dig my own fingers deep into my Pair of Knockers on a regular basis. I mean, yeah, I kind of check things out in the shower, but otherwise, I figure that the gods gifted me with the Knockers and they wouldn’t be mean about it.
As it turns out, the gods at least have a sense of humor, since they’ll be having an elephant stand on my left breast in the form of a mammogram tomorrow.
Since Kimberly the nice Physician’s Assistant asked me about noticing my left breast two weeks ago, it seems I just can’t get the damned thing out of my mind. I’m breast-obsessed. I move, jiggle, flex, and pose, tucking my chin down and looking at my left breast constantly. Is it twinging? Does it feel funny? Does it hurt? Is it turned on from all the attention? Hell, I don’t know. It’s just a breast.
Hopefully things will all turn out just fine tomorrow after the elephant stands on my breast. In the grand scheme of things, I’m pretty low risk—no family history, no smoking, no birth control pills in recent memory, and I breast-fed both my children for more than six months each. Of course, I *did* work on the Yucca Mountain project for three years, and we all know how much radiation I soaked up from that experience. And then there are all the dental x-rays I had during the seven-hour dentist appointment from hell last year.
Come to think of it, I’m probably screwed just based on the dental x-rays.
I think I’ll make my left breast a nice cuppa herbal tea and tuck it into bed a little early tonight. I think we both deserve it.