Mine are big. Always have been. Even with the help of Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, Dexatrim-you name it, I’ve tried them all- they’ve never dropped below a C. I’ve always disliked them and as I get older their reluctance to stand up straight causes me even more grief. Plus, they have no relationship to one another. If fact I’d say they are enemies who will do everything possible to avoid contact.

On Tuesday I went for my first mammogram and call me crazy, but getting screened for cancer kinda has a way of shifting your thoughts from “Does my cleavage look sexy enough?” to “I don’t want to die.” Once I was lead to the “Butterfly Room” (that’s not a joke. Where do the men go, “The garage”?), I stood with my robe open while a gloved technician lifted my boobs one at a time onto the machine platform. For once I didn’t care how they looked. I thought about how grateful I am that this was simply a routine screening and not a diagnostic.  I thought about what it must do to a woman to answer the phone and learn she has breast cancer. Fucking breast cancer. These anatomical flap jacks that we totally and completely over sexualize-tucking, lifting, increasing, decreasing, loving and loathing- could kill us. Ironic because they kept my child alive for a year.

Like all parts of our body (save the appendix, decidious teeth and natural hair color) they have a job to do and mine did it with flying colors. It is with this in mind that I offer a formal apology to my fun bags:

Dear Boobs,

For years I have hated you, wished you were different, wished you looked like a porn stars, had better cleavage, or were less saggy. But you know what? You supplied a human being with enough nutrients that he didn’t need to injest anything else for an entire year of his life! Sure, like your colleagues in other areas of the this tired body, you were  rode hard and put away wet by this child growing bidness but that was in the job description and you didn’t complain (except for a couple of times when you acted like a bitch and got incredibly sore).

I want to thank you for your incredible work (if I could promote you I would-ha! Get it?) and I apologize for ridiculing your poor symmetry, your bad posture and your love of my armpits. I don’t give a FUCK if a stranger or lover likes you,  my son did (okay, that sounds weird but you know what I mean).

You are perfect the way you are and and best of all, you are cancer free.

Girls, job well done.