It’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month!

I’ve been aware of breasts ever since I eyeballed those beauties in my cousins’ Playboy magazines. Fascinating and mystifying to young me…. when are they arriving? Lively and full of pep when they eventually made their first appearance. Frolicsome and spirited upon full arrival. Gently sloping, wiggly, jiggly and bouncy as time moved on. Magnificent, nourishing, comforting.

Fallible.

Shopping the junior department in the bargain basement of Marshall Field’s with my mom was fun times. Fun times… UNTIL that meddlesome bra-fitting-lady tried to plow her way through the curtains at my first bra-training session. With her eyeglasses swinging around her neck and tape measure on standby, that lady attempted to give my barely existent chichis a gander. “Moooom – why did you let the saleslady into my dressing room??!!!” 

It was soooooo embarrassing, especially considering it was my business if I wanted to keep my maracas undercover at all times. HEY LAAAADY – the instruction in making use of my apprentice brassiere may have required some on-the-job “training”, but there is nothing in the manual requiring any coaching from you!!

Since my boobies were late in making their appearance… there might have been some smoke and mirrors action in finagling my desired effect; I’m not saying that I did fill up the unoccupied space with a tissue or TEN…but I’m not saying I didn’t .

When they finally emerged, my junior year of high school, I was pumped, psyched, thrilled – then quickly deflated.

Pumped cause I had longingly hoped for their ballooning presence and much hyped arrival. Deflated, and let down and now self-conscious – cause stupid boys spent awkward minutes paying way too much attention to my chest region. EYES UP HERE FELLAS!!!

It was humiliating.

And the end result? I was no better off than when Kleenex was involved. So those ta-tas of mine remained in guarded seclusion. 

“Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid. Actually, it’s quite the opposite: a woman having large breasts makes men stupid” ~Rita Rudner

My undercover vigilance changed dramatically with my choice of a career that offered many an opportunity for others to check out my hooters.

As performers we often occupied unisex changing rooms – it was all very nonchalantly exposing this or that. Or backstage where a costume removed at warp speed, left a stage crew thoroughly unfazed. Nobody cared about my rack in the least.

As a dancer, my ‘pair’ always seemed to get in the way. The young girl who pined for that pair, was now a woman wishing to let the air out a bit. Lest I give you the impression I was hauling around an enormous set – I was not. But in the concert dance world I might as well have been.

Costumes were often a problem cause I lacked the efficiency to go sans bra. So now I was on the other side of the coin wishing for pocket-sized or at least ‘not so much of’ two of a kind.

On the flip side, my mammary glands were ‘ready for their close-up’ when babies arrived; presented upon demand and playboy centerfold inflated. And getting to witness and provide what they were actually meant for was miraculous and  mind blowing. The “show us your boobs” partying was in full swing. Whoopee!

When cancer infiltrated my singular boob, it was poked and probed, nudged and inspected…this was not sexy.. CANCER.

F@&K.

This rotten, scary, unwelcome conclusion called for surgical opinions, radiological opinions, oncological opinions. LOTS of opinions and lots of people requested a gander… and man …I DELIVERED.

Here they are doctor – take a looksee.

So you’re the radiologist? – give ‘em the once-over.

I have no idea who you are – wanna peek?

Ten years later, when cancer made its unfortunate comeback, and fingers crossed ‘farewell performance’, it was once again time to flaunt my bared self.

And for the second time, there were surgical opinions, radiological opinions, oncological opinions – theories, advice, data, considerations, Googling, Googling, GOOGLING – and copious amounts of eyeballing. This time I immediately went to…

…I have no idea who you are, come give ’em a once-over.

On the bright side, mastectomy and reconstruction afforded me the chance for a redo; a lift for the good one heading south and a total refurbishment for the faulty one on the left. And thankfully, with those days behind me, and my very healthy outcome, I’ve been able to reclaim some sense of privacy.

~Just a little reminder that mammogramming your boobs is more important than instagramming them~

Nowadays I am proud of my slightly askew, cancer-free boobs. Do I sometimes stand in front of my mirror arranging them to be more symmetrical and perkier? OF COURSE I DO.  But I am grateful for the fact that mine have not followed in the footsteps of my Nonnie. Pendulous does not describe the drooping, dangling eye-full when she would release those puppies from brassiere bondage. 

However, having previously revealed  my bazooms in great abundance, there has been one unfortunate development. Just like Mardi Gras, when standing on a balcony, I often get the urge to lift my top…

… no prodding required and beads optional.

NOW GO GET THAT MAMMOGRAM!!

~Image by pikisuperstar on Freepik