I have given my boobs a time out. As far as I’m concerned, for the time being, they do not exist. I do not acknowledge them even when someone else does, or when they make a play for attention by getting the way or causing me pain, because this is the key to time out. If you acknowledge their antics they’ll never learn.
What have my boobs done to warrant such treatment, you ask? They have betrayed me, they have gone and become defective, have transformed from well-formed aspects of my silhouette, to bearers of lumps. Hard, painful, scary, almost cancer, lumps. And I am, in a word, pissed.
I’ve only ever treated them with respect, dressed them in silks and lace, featured them to their best advantage, spoken of them with pride and shared them…well, generously.
Even at times of angst and disaffection for my body in general, I have always loved my boobs unconditionally. And what wouldn’t I? Well-shaped and without blemishes or disfigurement, what wasn’t to love? But no more. Now they are the source of great angst, stress, and strife; ever more lumpy and now one will even be scared and misshappen, if even only slightly…
And so, clearly they needed a time out. They could be growing moles, hair, or fungus, for all I’d notice. They could have turned purple, sprouted extra nipples or filled with jello and I would still give them no regard. The extent of my notice goes only to the seemingly huge, and surprisingly hard, round mass of mutating cells, that if ignored have an extremely high likelihood of becoming malignant within 22-48 months. Frankly, I think they are lucky to only get a time out – for had another 22-48 months passed, and their betrayal allowed to mature to this fullest level of mutiny, they would likely have been cast out completely, removed from my person all together. So really, a time out at this point is generous, and no less than they are due.
I would like to think that once the lump has been removed, I will be able to face my boobs again, to reclaim some semblance of our original, mutually supportive relationship. But part of me thinks that you can’t ever really go back; I will be forever aware of the dark side of our relationship. They may once again be the best part of my silhouette, but they will unlikely ever again be the subtle invitations to mischief and fun that they once were. But perhaps that’s for the best anyway, neither of us are young women anymore. Clearly.
