Thursday, May 24, 2007

Empires Rise and Fall. Wonderbra is Forever!

Well hey there, y’all! Thought I’d drop a line and say hello and let you know that things here are good. I had a bit of a scare recently, well, a scare and the shock of my life. Allow me to explain.

See, I live within the law and also by an unspoken code of ethics among women. Y’all galpals know what I mean. We don’t date each others’ exes. We don’t cry “hair trauma” to the hairdresser and get our friend’s appointment when they really need it. And we have no qualms about disciplining each others’ kids, only because we love them as our own and want them to go far in life. I mean, c’mon, look at our president. It took a village to raise that idiot. But, back to my story.

When Jerry and I relocated here, I made friends with this really cool woman at work named Markie. She lives in the same community, so I picked her brain about good places to eat, good shopping, the best hair salons (cheap with no wait!) and of course, doctors. Markie rose to the occasion and became my living, breathing almanac. But back to that unspoken code…she left out a rather important detail.

It starts with the big scare. I was having my shower a few days ago (which is scary on SO many levels) and so decided to lather up my hair with the deep conditioning rinse and let it do it’s thing while I shaved my legs and underarms. Let me tellya, I am the poster child for breast cancer awareness, so if anyone ever saw me in the shower, they would think there was an eclipse if they saw my big fat ass. No, what I meant to say is they would think I’m some kind of self-pervert because I always check for anything suspicious. And to date, I have been really lucky. But the other night, I felt a lump in my armpit.

I can honestly say it is probably the size of a raisin, but to me, it felt like the size of Wyoming (kinda like my ass!) Anyway, all shaving activity ceased and I stayed awake all night praying and waiting for daybreak to call the doctor for an appointment. Remember, the one Markie recommended to me? So, they tell me to come in immediately and have it checked out. Off I go in my mommie uniform of old sweatpants, no makeup, deep-conditioned hair in a scrunchy and an old RUSH concert t-shirt that has seen better days (like back when the band first formed!) Away I went.

I had been to the office once before and I saw the physician’s assistant, Myrtle or Iris or something like that. I went into the examining room and waited for her. There was a knock at the door and in walked the actual doctor. Three thoughts went through my mind simultaneously.

1. OMG this is the BEST looking man I have ever seen!
2. Markie, you bee-yotch, why did you FAIL to mention that this is the best looking man ever?
3. Holy $#!^ he is going to have to examine my noo-nahs and HE IS THE BEST LOOKING SOB I HAVE EVER SEEN!

I could hardly recover enough to speak to him. I know what you’re thinking, too. I mean, I have had a baby, so surely I am no longer self conscious around doctors. Folks, I pick doctors VERY carefully! They are all highly skilled, old, ugly, and just one step ahead of Stevie Wonder on the vision placement test, ‘kay? So, Dr. McDreamy takes my blood pressure and says, “Wow, your pressure’s a bit high.”

Right, sport. I am going to have to take my shirt off in front of you, and let’s just say that my boobs fell faster and farther than the Roman Empire. I never finished shaving my underarms, but that’ll be painfully obvious to you in another couple of minutes, and I am going to leave here and go commit murder. At least Markie’s kids are grown and they can fend for themselves!

Sure enough, here came the dreaded “Remove your top and bra, put the gown on open in the front, and I’ll be back in five minutes.”

After he left, a quick check revealed that there were no razors, tweezers, or NAIR in the exam room (freaks!) so I prayed that if the lump was something awful that was going to kill me, PLEASE let it happen now, before he comes back. No dice. Okay, think fast. Then it hit me. See at my age, when I lay down without the benefit of Wonderbra (or as I like to call it, “Hooter Hefter”) everything goes east and west. Get my drift? So I decided the thing to do would be to lay down with my arms squished up together to hold ‘the girls’ in place while keeping the gown closed with my hands over my fat stomach. Unfortunately, I could do nothing about my underarm fat sticking up on either side like twin Matterhorns, but hey, at least some of the crisis was averted.

Dr. McDreamy came back in and said in all seriousness, “I need you to raise your arm and fold it behind your head.”

WHAT?

“You know, just put your hand behind your head.”

Oh crapola! Alrighty then. Try to ignore the timberline in my armpit, oh and would you pick that up off the floor for me? It’s my right breast. Thanks so much!

“Well”, he said, “I’m not terribly concerned. I can barely feel it.”

(Through my underarm fat!).

“You need to have a mammogram, follow up, blah, blah, blah.”

So after all that drama and various other diagnostics, the good news is that the lump is nothing to be concerned about and my health is good. Of course, after all those machinations in the doctor’s office, I have permanent curvature of the spine and am looking for a blind chiropractor! Markie has apologized and tried to make up, but I am pretty sure I saw her talking to the Feds about the Witness Protection Program. Never hurts to be safe. I have decided to take better care of my health, and now, I live by yet another code. I always carry an emergency kit in my purse; deodorant, a razor, makeup, you know. The essentials. Oh, and duct tape! I can’t afford implants!

2 comments:

Kevin said...

You so crazy! I love reading about your life because it makes mine seem sane! You are the greatest and keep up the great stories! Hugs and Quiches!

Cis said...

Cat, I just read ALL of your blogs and am still wiping the tears of laughter from my face, neck, and shirt collar! You're a hoot! Thanks for sharing your life in the wilds of NC. It only confirms my belief that I need to stay in So Fla. So when SROC closes, I guess I'll have to take that miserable CTS job in Miramar.
Miss ya!