Breasts. I hate them. They are nothing but trouble.
A few months ago, I found a lump in my right breast. As I waited to see my doctor, I imagined what might happen. Best case scenario: there would be no lump. I’d have imagined it and would get felt up for no good reason by some man who couldn’t even remember my name. It wouldn’t be the first time. Pretty darn good scenario: It would be a cyst and I would have to lie topless on a table surrounded by strangers with big needles who wanted to aspirate it. Aspirate, you see, is a fancy word for lance. Worst case scenario: my breasts would kill me. After all, breasts killed my aunt and they killed an estimated 40,000 American women last year alone.
I was lucky. It was a cyst. But may I just say I think it sucks that I have these two potentially deadly inconveniences hanging off the front of me. I didn’t ask for them. And had I been given a choice, I would have said, “No thanks.”
No thanks, I don’t want to spend money on bras at $30 a pop for the rest of my life. My idea of accessorizing isn’t a sports bra, a lace bra, and a bra that works under white t-shirts. I’ll spend my money on shoes thank you very much.
No thanks, I don’t want men looking at my chest instead of my face when I talk to them.
No thanks, I won’t miss getting mammograms. I can always just walk naked into a crowded room if I have an overwhelming need to experience discomfort.
No thanks, I think I have enough PMS symptoms. Moodswings, pimples and cramps are good enough for me. I don’t need tender breasts every month too.
And no thank you, I don’t need my body parts to relocate after I have children. My c-section scar is memento enough.
Now before La Leche comes after me, let me just say that I nursed my children. I am both appreciative and awed by the fact that my body could grow and then nourish a human life. But why did it have to be breasts?
But breasts it is. So please, remind the women in your life to get an annual mammogram and give them a hug. Just don’t try to cop a feel while you do it.