Excerpt from The Suburban Jungle by Jenny Isenman.
Feel Your Boobies – or Else I Will!
After a lump scare in my mid-20′s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word and it’s totally okay to get to 2nd base with yourself, but getting to second with a woman donning a lab coat and a sick sense of humor is even better!
So, it turned out to be a cyst? A cyst, why didn‘t I think of that? Where is there even room for a cyst in these double A’s? Maybe it’ll grow enough to pump me up a cup or two.
OMG, did I actually think that? Was my internal dialogue not warped enough without daydreaming about a baseball sized growth that could make me look better in a bikini? And whether I could somehow use mind control to ensure one of equal size would grow in the other breast… you know, for symmetry?
I snapped out of my twisted speculation in time to hear the Doctor explain that, like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.
I had heard horrible tales of this test and it’s crushing pain from older generations, like the passing of folklore. I feared the impending torture and dreaded that, what little my child bearing and breastfeeding had left unscathed, would be permanently altered.
By the time my appointment had rolled around the fear of having something less benign started to set in. If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind? The closer I came to the appointment the more the anxiety weighed me down. Pressing me to skip it, to stay home and play sick.
Somehow, my legs and car were on autopilot, and I arrived at the office with time to spare. In the waiting room, I saw a woman, not a day under 100. If she can do this, so can I. But then again she’s old, she’s lived her life, she has less to fear. She’s seen her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, maybe even great-great… As my mind started to spiral into faulty reasoning, they called my name. Phew.
My tech was a brash woman who was incredibly verbose, and clearly missing the filter most of us are born with. Maybe there is some kind of de-inhibiting process that occurs when looking at tatas all day. I’ll have my husband test my theory at the next bachelor party he attends.
“Okay, let’s see what you got in the bra,” was the tech’s icebreaker.
“The last time someone used that line on me he didn’t even get to first base, let alone second.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not lookin’ to make-out.”
Clearly she skipped Socialization 101, also known as Kindergarten, but I can banter with the best of them, and I concentrated more on my retorts than the fear of what was coming.
When I reluctantly disrobed, she cooed, “They’re so cute and perky.” Then she giggled to herself, and mumbled something about getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine. Though it’s been years since someone actually laughed at the size of my chest, it felt oddly familiar and I patiently waited for the requisite pointing to ensue.
Luckily, I’m not easily embarrassed. Being a card carrying member of the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Comitteee) prepared me for nothing, if not this.
Not that the IBTC was a club I longed to join. I desperately tried to make them bigger. If shear will power wasn’t enough, surely pairing it with chest pumps would do the trick. I must have done a million chest squeezes while chanting:
We must, we must, we must increase our bust.
The bigger the better, the tighter the sweater.
The boys are counting on us.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
What’s a bra without a bust?
Who would have thought such a brilliant plan would fall so, ahem flat, especially when the 7th grade girls pinky swore it was totally fool proof. Yeah well, I’m still an A, so who’s the fool now, 7th grade girls?
After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.
“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.
“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.
As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf they slipped right out.
The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.
“What? Did you butter those puppies?“ She asked, with a snort.
I ignored her and rubbed by chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.
The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.
“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”
“Don’t worry. They won’t break.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting. I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.
“What was that, bone?”
“Alright, just one more squeeze.”
“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”
“Oh, are you breast feeding?”
After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.
There was no one, no squirrels or skunks or other well meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.
This is what all the hype is about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of being done was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to and wait for my results.
Read Conclusion and Results at: THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE.