Getting Away With It
Every time I get a cold sore, I get paranoid that I’m going to spread it, uh, everywhere, and I don’t just mean there, I mean EVERYWHERE. If I get a mosquito bite on my arm, I freak out, screeching that I’ve got The Herp on my elbow! The Herp on my elbow! like Maria Von Trapp and the damn Nazis. I read somewhere that it can happen, you know, on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full, and despite obsessive handwashing and the adamant refusal to put anything non-disposable to my lips, I can’t accept that it won’t happen to me.
As happens every month, we are winding down the hypochondriacal portion of our hormonal curve, and now that I’m rational again, I can say with total honesty that I gave myself no fewer than 37 breast self-exams, each with a different result, ranging from “It’s cancer OMG, we’re all going to die,” to “This should clear up with a lumpectomy and one round of chemo and THANK GOD I like my hair short already!” to “Uh, that lump you’re feeling? Is YOUR BOOB, you dumbass!”
I have finally accepted that the final diagnosis is more than likely the correct one, but I cannot rest yet because my boobs are still extremely sore from all the poking and prodding and perpetual feeling-up. And although the pain could mean something really ominous (like getting my period, OMG!), it likely means that I need to just sit up and get my damn fingers out of my fleenies.
Speaking of boobs, tonight Sunny and I were walking with my neighbor and her one year-old son, Nolan (not that Nolan!), who was dropping vanilla wafers and creme sandwiches the entire way, which was basically Shangri-La for Sunny, who now doesn’t understand why tasty creamy vanilla things don’t appear at her feet with every step she takes. When Nolan and his mom peeled off to go home, we walked by the gym/clubhouse (shut up), where a couple of kids I recognized were hanging out and yelling loudly. After a couple of lines, I realized that the smallish one was singing about his teacher in some sort of pre-pubescent sexual ode that involved sticking his “honker” into her “hooter” as retold in that really gorgeous way that only a 10 year- old can manage. After he reached a frenzied crescendo of hooters, honkers and weenies, he looked in my direction and shouted:
“Hey sweetheart! I think your boobs are pretty hot too, babe! Rock them hooters!”
He’s 10. TEN. I know his mother. Are 10 year-olds really into boobs and hooters and teachers and honkers? When I was 10, I may have had a crush on John Schneider (Bo Duke to you and me), and I most definitely had an ill-advised crush on Bowzer of ShaNaNa (Um, oh my God?), but seriously, my fantasies were centered around hitting the local ice cream store/dairy farm and holding hands behind the hay bales for crying out loud and maybe some hugging. I was not interested in feeling up either of their honkers or weenies or anything, dude, and if the opportunity presented itself, I would have run screaming for the hills, because I’m sure the sight would have petrified me, as I’d never seen man-junk before, and secondly, uh gross. And finally, although this is entirely irrelevant because again, he’s TEN, my boobs are nearly impossible to see from any distance, so maybe he was ahead of his time and being an ironic 10 year-old smartass? I’ll kick his ass either way.
And finally, I did, indeed, wear earrings today and no one noticed, which is awesome and I may even do it again! Woot! That is, I was home free until I got home and brought Sunny out for her evening walk (pre-honker) and my (very stylish and also very observant) 8 year-old neighbor Lexi eyed me suspiciously and asked:
“You goin’ somewhere?”
“No. Why?”
Her tone was accusatory and her hand was on her hip, defiant: “Uh, because you’re wearing EARRINGS. You never wear earrings. WHAT IS GOING ON WITH YOU?”
I’d almost gotten away with it. Almost.
*Electronic. Oh, Bernard. Oh, Neil.
**Oh my God, Beth, you were totally right.
21 comments October 9th, 2006