Well, I haven't really talked to many people about this, as I really don't like to talk behind others' backs. I know all relationships have their problems. You never can really know anyone. But I must say I've been blindsided by my most trusted friend(s), after 20 years of friendship. I really thought we had something. And it turns out, I think they just did it for attention.
Yeah, boobs, I'm talkin' about you. And I know you can read, so you can stop playing dumb.
You guys know me, and I don't get overly personal, so don't worry about that. This ain't no Vagina Monologues (I never really understood that title. I mean, wouldn't they be better at cold readings? And 16 bars? Doubtful.). Anyway, over the last few weeks I've had a bit of a, well, 'scare' is a strong word. We'll call it a 'nervous'. I've had a nervous. In a moment of surprising adulthood, something was located where nothing has been located before. There's not supposed to be anything in there; they're all form, no function at the moment. And, try as I may, I could not find a reasonable explanation (Was I shot with a b.b. as a child, and blocked it out? Mom says no.). To my dismay, my doctor, who is Polish and awesome, confirmed a strange finding located "Zere. At 6 o'clock." Well, I've never been good with clocks, so you can imagine. Anyway, that + mom in remission (4 years, baby!)= "You know vat I sink? I sink you get mammogram. And ulllltrasound." Well, well, well. The truth comes out. Guess you really never do know anyone. The betrayal cuts like a knife.
Here's the thing: ever since I was 9 years old, I've known I wanted boobs. It is, to date, one of the few certain and attainable goals I've ever had.
When I was in elementary school, the 4th and 5th grade were in a different building. I noticed something was different about the girls over there; there was definitely somethin' goin' on with the shirts. And I wanted those kinds of shirts. I'm not the best at math, but in my mind, 5th grade = BOOBS, and not just on an upside down calculator. Well, 5th grade came and went, and...nuthin'. I was perplexed. But I didn't lose hope. Being as my nose had reached adult size by the time I was about 6, I was anxious to have something to pull focus in front, and awaited bigger and brighter...things. I just hoped that when they showed, they'd have something to bring to the table. Three perms and a set of braces later, I woke up one day and there they were, with no idea where they came from (how all the best relationships begin). And they did bring their A-game...and B-game...then eventually, C-game. (Stop, Forest!) Second to my eyes, I feel they are my best feature. I guess you can say I have four windows to my soul. So...where did I go wrong, ladies? I've always been nothing but nice to you. Good natured mocking aside, I've treated you with total respect, swearing to only use your powers for good, not evil. Sure, I may have thrown you under the bus for my horrible golf swing, but I thought we got past that. I have always practiced total fidelity, and my eye has never roamed. I never tried to change you, and accepted you just as you were. And I have never, ever, named you.
Is it residuals? Do you feel you've been exploited for free advertising space by many a strategically placed bar name/sports team/school/slogan/band name t-shirt? I never asked, but I assumed you wouldn't mind. Any press is good press, right? Or perhaps you just wanted more attention! Considering how well I tolerate that trait in people, I feel we're at an impasse. If we are to continue this relationship, you cannot be crazy bitches. So help me, God, I'll have you in a sensible sweater so fast your head(s) will spin. If that's even possible.
So, I go to the doctor, guns blazing. As I am young, I am prepared for resistance. I am armed with statistics and stories of some lovely gals my age who found themselves in some crappy boats. And I have the 'immediate relative' card. But, I was relieved, and admittedly a bit unnerved, when I didn't need 'em. Yep, it's there, yep, you're getting some tests. Hmmm. That was easy! (New ad campaign, Staples? Call me!) She points out repeatedly that they are 'dense.' Why, thank you! So, a week later, I'm off to the hospital. I'm given a three-armed gown, told to figure out how to work it, and left alone in a room...with the machine. You. I get the gown on in a bold fashion choice, and I wait for the tech, Sherly with an 'e', to return. I eye my competition, which looks like a clear, rectangular Tupperware container hanging over a hot plate. Huh. You ain't so tough. I'm recalling all the horror stories we're told about its kung-fu grip. A tumbleweed rolls between us. I don't blink. Sherly with an 'e' is gone for an eternity. Maybe she was getting her 'e' removed. Now, for the first time, I am nervous as hell, simply due to the fact that I am not looking forward to this at all. I don't wanna! I start reading pamphlets, which is a bad idea. No amount of boredom is worth reading the pamphlets in a doctors office. Insta-hypochondria. As Sherly with an 'e' returns, I panic, and try to go to my happy place....which means talking myself down. Well, it could be worse, I could have a prostate, right? And it only lasts a couple seconds, right? And I was in college once, I dated college-aged guys, this can't be that different, right? Right. After some very unsuccessful quips land with a thud (Sherly with an 'e' was a tough crowd. She's just totally over it, which I find very, very sad. There's a reason I don't want to learn how to cook scallops myself: I like them too much.) it's go time. It really wasn't awful at all. It's like an awkward photo shoot, complete with 'Lift your chin.' I can deal with that. Again with the 'dense.' Now, come on, have you even tried talking to them? They're quite well-read.
So, now it's time for round two, the ultra sound. I'm left in a sitting area to watch 'West Coast Choppers'. Huh. Somehow, this all seems fitting. I overhear an irritating conversation between two nurses about escalating airfare, which featured 'like' no less than 45,000 times. Of course, one of them walks out and heads straight for me. Nice. You're 12. I don't know if any of you have ever been privy to an ultrasound, but there is goo involved, which makes it possible for the machine/scanner thingy to glide. It is not remotely hot, but I was half expecting a pizza delivery man to knock on the door, followed by a copier repair man. And maybe a plumber. Anyway, I watch the screen, and I don't know why. I don't understand any of it. If you're wondering what it looks like in there, it's kind of like 'Dune', or post-apocalyptic somewhere. Not a place worth buying a postcard for. My first instinct in awkward situations is to say something smartass (Is that....Neil Armstrong? Or Does that say...SMS Titanic?). But Sherly with an 'e' had robbed me of any will to try again. It feels like I'm there for 8 years. The 'dense' issue is addressed again. Alright, already. I get it. Move on, people, there's nothing I can do about it. (Actually, there is: cut out caffeine. And that will never happen.)
The next day, my doctor calls me to tell me the results are 'inconclusive'. That's great! Isn't it...? Basically, nothing showed up because nothing showed up at all. So...you're saying, you tried to take a decent picture, and they blinked? Once again, I hear the word 'dense'. And in an unfortunate knee-jerk reaction, my mouth said: "You know, my boobs went to college, too." Silence. Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. And then she laughed. Finally! Put that in your 'e' and smoke it, Sherly! So, anyway, she does not think there is anything to worry about. This is all standard, and the next step is an MRI, which I find hilarious for some reason. I have always associated that with brains. Perhaps this explains a lot. My brain really is in the wrong place. Or the right place. Depends on how you look at it.
That was a week ago, and I have yet to hear back from my insurance company about whether they will cover an MRI or not. Yeah. Once again, I find that my boobs are in the hands of strangers. Oh, cruel fate. So....ve vait. If the powers that be say no, then...? Well, I guess we'll just jump off that bridge when we come to it. On the upside of this no-fun situation, I have learned that the medical term for 'nice rack' is 'dense.' Good to know. So, yeah. It seems the boobs are hell-bent on dragging me through a messy, tabloid-ridden custody battle. I hope we can be friends again when this has blown over. But I'll never look at them the same. You can, though.
