The Grim Burrito

Today though, I wanted jeans. Mainly because my current main pair are sagging at bit at the butt and no one wants saggy butt jeans, right? I stopped wearing diapers years ago, I don't need to look like I've started again. Besides, I'm going on a trip in a couple of weeks and no one likes to go on vacation in old clothes, right?

It started, as things sometimes do, in the shower. A new lotion that smelled like fresh spring limes. Warm water. All good. You might think this is a cue for an ensuing pornographic scene. It isn't.

"What's this?"

Something that doesn't belong. A lump. A lump in my upper lady place, where no lumps should reside. One of those dark monsters you hear that other women find, but who're never supposed to haunt you. Certainly not me. I am indestructible, remember?

I reacted maturely by deciding I was going to die. Probably by tomorrow and most likely in a severely painful dramatic manner while everyone I know sobbed around my bedside and a sad song played on the stereo. Something heart wrenching.

I broke out in a cold sweat of dread. My breathing got hard. I burst into tears and rested my face against the soaking wet tile, terrified.

It's nothing.

It's something.

It's normal.

It's just hormones due to it being the first day of my period.

I'm going to die.

Those are the thoughts that go through your head all in about three seconds flat.

While I was drying off and putting on clean clothes that smelled of lavender, my mind raced with the possibilities until, a minute later, I had already said all my tearful goodbyes in my head like some overly emotional movie scene, died a hundred dramatic deaths, called myself a "fucking moron" for being so morose and decided that panic was not my friend.

I didn't tell anyone about the lump that day, or the next. I didn't want to acknowledge its existence. I didn't want it to have any power. It was going away.

Next day, I felt it again. Same place and method as before. So I panicked again. Because you know, I really am immortal. And full of menstrual hormone demons. How dare this stupid lump not recognize my immortality, my unshakeability?

I can't be sick. I won't allow it. I don't have time. I have stuff to do. Futures to plan. Debts to settle. So. Much. Stuff. To. Do.

I thought I'd wait and find a nice perfect moment to tell my boyfriend about the situation, because keeping these things to yourself only makes the burden greater. So the following day, waiting in line at the auto shop, while buying a new muffler whatchamadoodle for the car, I blurted out, "I also need a bulb for the signal light and I have a lump the size of a grapefruit on my breast and am probably going to die."

My boyfriend, once he'd deciphered that sentence, walked me outside, sat me down on a bench and while no one was around had a covert poke at the diseased boobie. "It's the size of a dime!" he said, "And you shouldn't panic, they happen all the time and you need to go see a doctor who can tell you what it is."

Because he's really immortal and unflappable and maybe not so dramatic.

He did a ton of research and reassured me with things like, "Hey, 80% of breast lumps are not even dangerous!" and such nuggets of wisdom.

Today, the day after my period ended, I can hardly feel the lump unless I poke around quite severely. It's smaller, less noticeable but still apparent in some form. I went to see the doctor early this morning. She was a small, cheerful Indian lady with a big smile and a reassuring touch. While she was kneading my boobs like dough, she talked to me about the weather and the summer so far and if we were in for a cold winter, as though we were conversing on a park bench while sharing a sandwich.

I babbled mindlessly like a lobotomized idiot.

"I really don't feel anything too abnormal there." she said finally, after a good two minutes of prodding. "Just a little thicker tissue in the area you said but I wouldn't even call it a lump particularly. I think it's probably completely natural. Certainly, it doesn't feel suspicious to me at this stage at all."

I had the burning urge to stand up, throw my arms in the air and yell, 'Everybody lives!" like in Doctor Who.

"I'm not going to die?" I asked, cautiously. "Not yet, no." she said with a frown.

"However..." she stated, because there's always a however. "That's just my medical opinion. You need to get a mammogram just to be 100% sure, because my hands can only tell you so much. I don't think you have much to worry about, but the mammogram will tell you for sure if you need further tests or not and then you can relax."

She told me that even if it did turn out to be something more serious, it was likely so early it would be treatable pretty quickly and that there was no rush in me getting an immediate appointment. "The next few weeks is fine." she said.

"Even if this did turn out to be breast cancer," my boyfriend told me triumphantly once we'd gotten outside. "Deaths from breast cancer are now 1 in 28. That's pretty good odds!"

"Stop doing research now." I said. "You're freaking me out."

So now I'm feeling a bit better. I'm waiting to get my boobs pancaked between two, cold glass plates, which happens in just over 2 weeks. And drinking a cup of hot coffee. And definitely not freaking out about biopsies and surgeries and other pleasant things.

Not much anyway. Maybe later.

I've also been nursing my sick car back to health by paying more in repairs than the car is actually worth, given that it is old, temperamental, a positively strange color and looks like the sort of vehicle you'd expect to see a geriatric, safety conscious gentleman driving, while carefully observing the speed limit. An old Republican gentleman who likes to golf on weekends circa 1998 and wear expensive but sensible loafers. So naturally it suits me to a tee, as I am none of those things. But at least I have a " feels like new old car" now that doesn't stutter and seem diseased when it rains and better the devil you know than paying out that money on a new "used" car that might die in a month, right? That's what I'm telling myself. Heaven forbid I go out and finance something new.

I'm actually thinking of adding a "You kids get off of my lawn" sticker to the back windshield. I feel it might be redundant, however, as driving that car, it's already implied. Instead I draped a hot pink blanket over the back seat, my one concession to not having an elderly penis and declaring the car "me".

On that scintillating note, I do hope you've all had a delightful summer so far?

I didn't say anything. I understand primal lust. And what's more primal than a sweaty, puffing, frizzy-headed woman in no make-up, wearing a metallic blue cycle helmet, ancient cut off jeans and chipped toe polish? I was just relieved they were able to control themselves from pulling me from my bike and ravishing me right there in the dust.

As I neared the group of workers, standing around chatting while leaning on their instruments, they all fell silent and watched me pedal closer, cycling against the strong breeze, face red like a glowing, Martian moon. No one said anything. As I passed you could hear the gears churning beneath me.

I sighed with relief.

Just as I was almost out of earshot one of them shouted, "Nice ass!"

Working road construction must be pretty boring.