You're Such a Bitch!!

Photo by Juliana Coutinho

I am perplexed by the extremes of experiences I have had with women. On the one hand, I have been the benefactor of such deep and meaningful friendships, studies show my life expectancy has increased. The foundation of these relationships is trust. In these women I open my soul to the best and worst of me, and they in turn share their deepest and darkest. We hold these secrets as a bond without judgment…unless of course we have a better friend with a stronger bond, then we are beholden to dish-up this juicy information, trusting them to hold their tongues…unless of course they have a better BFF. And so on. Usually though, even if they blab our soul-secrets, our friendship is true enough that they don’t do it maliciously, and they are so good at it, I never actually know they spilled their guts. What a lucky gal am I to have such friends!

On the other hand, I have had relationships with women who were much more devious and their intentions seldom honest. These women I refer to as “psycho-bitches-from-hell” (PBFH). Some are so conniving and skilled, they can fool you into thinking they are the good kind of friend. You might even trust them enough to bring them into your inner circle. These women are looking for connections that offer two benefits. The first is status building. The second is safety from competition. As they scope you and your inner circle out, they will target the women whom they believe can enhance their coolness by association and at the same time, won’t steal their husbands. They are wary hunters, focused and discerning about who is good enough to be associated with.

Friendships with these women seldom have an up-side. If they pick you as a cool-enhancing accessory, your friendship lasts only as long as the moment they find someone with greater coolness increasing potential. You can be replaced and they will, dropping you like a fat ass on the biggest loser! They leave behind a trail of wounded women, who’ve lost what they believed was a lifespan-increasing-sister friend. It’s just as well…although now the evil PBFH knows all your shit, and will use it like stepping-stones to reach the highest echelons of social networking. Our dirtiest laundry is catalogued and repackaged into self-serving versions, used to undermine us and reduce our ability to form friendships with her cooler crowd, lest they like us better or believe our warning tales about her devious intentions. She will ruin your reputation so fast, your head will spin!

If they don’t pick you and don’t feel you are a threat, they will simply ignore you. This is probably the best of all possible options, although incredibly confusing. I am not very threatening or socially elevating, and so, am often ignored by bitchy or competitive women. When we cross paths, I like to jump in front of them, like the village idiot, and say an eager and toothy “Hello!” You know these broads! They’re the ones you’ve been introduced to a zillion times and each time they act like they’ve never laid eyes upon you before. At your next meeting with these memory-challenged ho-bags, you should devise a story that falsely elevates your cool status. (eg. I am so excited! My first novel is going to be made into a movie starring Brad Pitt! You should come to the cast party at my house next week!) This is the surest way to fuck with their heads and the storyline possibilities are endless! Better yet, start flirting outrageously with their husband or boyfriend, and at least they will perceive you as a threat and turn their bitch-faces on.

Woe unto you if they believe you are a threat! Maybe you are skinnier, better dressed, prettier, funnier, sexier, whatever, they will work their nut-job asses off to bring you down a notch. A mad kind of social war-fare will begin. Anyone whose attention they are trying to divert away from you and back to them, will be told all manner of un-truths about you. I have a friend who has been the victim of the musings of two different PBFH. She is beautiful and kind, and most men are envious of her husband. She unfortunately is pegged as a significant threat by these women. She could elevate their status, but lacks the desire or mean-spirit for the all-important bitchy-gossip collaboration necessary to cement these cool-girl bonds. Thus she can only be shunned. Called a prom girl by one, and told her husband was a misogynistic bastard by another, and lovingly warned not to marry him, she moved away from these false friends. I on the other hand threaten neither of these mutual former friends. One thinks I am white trash, although recently discovered I’m a little cooler than she thought, and the other is so unthreatened by me, she treats me like the village idiot (even when I haven’t jumped in front of her!) and could only look down her nose more at me if she stood upon Mount Everest.

These types of women deserve a certain amount of our pity. They will likely never experience the deep, real, unconditional friendships we on the outside fill our lives with. Many will have no long term friendships but flit through brief loyalties until something better comes along. Studies show this kind of bitchy competitiveness is linked to mating competition. It peaks in high school and college aged girls (surprise, surprise!). Apparently, around the age of 50, competitiveness for mates fades away and women become warmer and more welcoming friends. I am looking forward to that time as bitchy women freak me out!

Maybe this will also mark a time in my life where bygones will be bygones and I can more easily forgive the transgressions of these PBFH. They should mellow out more, and be able to assess the value of a friend more by who she is than what she can do for them. I have a few more bitchy years ahead of me but feel better armed to deal with it. I am now able to recognize the role a women has sorted me into: friend, stepping stone, invisible loser or husband-stealing slut. I will embrace the friends and continue to work on my mind fucking bullshit for the others!

Bedroom Workout



Photo by montroyaler, Flicker

 Getting back in shape is a key component of my effort to look better and take care of my body. I exercise sporadically. I find it hard to fit regular workouts into my schedule. Yoga is one thing I really enjoy and it kicks my butt. The problem is I am usually working when the classes are scheduled and I haven’t been able to get consistent with it. Each time I can make it to class I feel like a beginner and my body creaks with every pose. I curse under my breath at the woman who can put her face between her knees when she “forward folds”. “She musn’t have to work”, I think bitterly. ”If I didn’t have to work I would work out all the time! I would have a bevy of personal trainers, a personal chef and have an awesome body. I would be so yoga gifted I would be able to wrap my ankles around my ears!” But at this moment I can’t even reach my toes.

I resent my job for the effect it has had on my body and my ability to do something about it. One evening, whilst I sat munching mini candy bars and watching my evening programming, I noticed a channel called Fit TV. Curious, I scrolled through the programming and found some interesting content. There was a thirty minute yoga program which seemed interesting. I wondered if this might be a solution. Perhaps I could record these episodes and play them back at my convenience when a free moment became available? I also found a program for abs, butt and thighs. Who couldn’t use a little lovin’ in those areas? I set up to record the yoga, the abs and butt show, and one called “Shimmy” which teaches the ancient art of belly dancing.

The next morning I excitedly rearranged my bedroom furniture to clear my workout space and laid out my yoga mat. I had my fingers crossed that this program would be a good substitute for the yoga classes I enjoy attending. I pressed play and waited. I heard the right kind of music start up, and three lovely ladies appeared. The narrator’s soothing voice began guiding me through the poses. At first, during the warm up, I felt encouraged, I recognized several of the poses and the style of yoga was the same as the class. This type of yoga moves you fluidly from one pose to another linking into a series of poses that are repeated. In class we hold these poses for a short time and move slowly from one to the next. As the program continued and the pose series started, the calm and gentle narrator’s voice turned into the frenzied pace of an auctioneer. The poses started flying at me with barely a pause between them. I finally had to turn my mat sideways to avoid all the neck craning I was doing trying to see what these lovely ladies, in alternating rainy day or beach scenery, were doing.

Just as I nailed the series, the program broke for a series of infomercials. I realized the reason she was cranking through the poses was because commercial breaks were eating up the time. I fast forwarded through the commercials and continued with my pathetic efforts to keep up and actually get something out of the class. Another commercial break later and we moved to the relaxation portion where you get to lie down with eyes closed as a reward for the hard work you have done. I always look forward to this time at the end of an hour class. I had barely broken a sweat when it was time to rush and lie down on my mat. I hurriedly relaxed thinking at least this would be nice. No sooner had I closed my eyes, when the commando narrator told me to open them back up. Disappointedly, I realized this wasn’t going to work.

I clicked on the abs and butt program, hoping for better results. When the program started, I realized that this was an old taping of an early 90’s aerobic show likely filmed on the beach somewhere in California. There was a sleazy looking instructor with wiry curly hair, tight bike shorts and a loose wife beater tank top. He had matching black socks and sneakers. He stood on a small round exercise mat in the sand, surrounded by three women in super high cut body suits and panty hose. Who the hell works out in panty hose?? Who the hell even wears panty hose?? A techno beat pulsed in the back ground. The class was reminiscent of aerobics classes where you hop, clap and side step your way to a great body. The blinds in my room were open and I hoped desperately that nobody could see me as I did jumping jacks and high knee marching.

I laughed more than once as I windmilled my arms over head to the eight count beat. My mind wandered back to bikini waxing as the lady assistants did their ab work. Their body suit side cuts were so extreme I was sure they only had enough material left for a full front to back thong. I finished the class, also interrupted with commercials. I must admit the ab part of the program was good, but despite the creepy instructor’s encouragement, I didn’t get much out of it. I did a little belly dancing after that which I think Candace Bergen was narrating. It just reminded me of my lack of abdominal tone and I clicked it off.

Fit TV was a big fat waste of time. Too many commercials and not enough work-out. Looks like I have to figure out better time management and get my ass to yoga. As a back-up, I am off to buy a lottery ticket, in hopes that I can quit my job and hire an entourage.

Mammogram: The Final Saga



photo by jonny2love flickr.com



G ood news!  I got the all clear.  Whew, what a relief.  The technician was the same one I had the first go around, and she was great.  She showed me what the radiologist was worried about...a bright cluster of tissue that looked different than the rest or "irregular" she said.  She explained that they would need to take a few views to see if the cluster moved apart, suggesting normal tissue, or stayed together in a mass in which case it would need further investigating.

She took four more images, one with a boob twist technique, to try and move the tissue around, and one with small pads to focus the study on the trouble spot.  When done, she showed me the images again, and fortunately they looked vastly different.  Now the whole breast looked the same and there was no evidence of a grouping of cells.

To be on the safe side the radiologist recommended an ultrasound.  I was feeling better at this point, but was still nervous, as I had read that the ultrasound could still see things the mammogram had not.  Having to wait a while before the machine was ready I asked if my husband could come in and wait with me.  He wasn't allowed in the women's area unless invited.  When he entered the room, it was immediately apparent he was out of his element.  Jokingly I told the technician that he was not my husband, that she had brought in the wrong man.  Ha Ha.  The streamlined mammogram machine sat looming in the middle of the room, a foreign part of the landscape to the male eye. 

Soon it was off to the ultrasound where my poor husband was invited to hang out.  "Sure, I'll come in," he answered reluctantly.  I whipped out the offending mammary and she went about sounding and clicking views to take to the radiologist.  She was also very nice and said "Umm Kaay" alot like the gay teacher on South Park, which was nice.  When finished she left the room to consult with the radiologist.  A short time later she returned with good news, all was normal, and they would see me in a year for my next routine scan.

I get to keep my boobs, at least for the time being, which is a plus.  I have a new appreciation for how different this experience can be for so many women, how frightening for some.  I hope to keep all the promises I made bartering for a good outcome.  "If it's negative, I will never eat junk food again"..etc. 

Mammogram: The Sequel



photo by thephotographymuse



I'm scared.  Today is the day I go for additional testing on my left breast.  It has been less than a week since my screening mammogram. The radiologist noticed a density in the breast and per her report, stated that they couldn’t determine conclusively if it has increased in size from last year’s test. Additional mammogram views are needed with the possibility of an ultrasound.

Since I was informed of this it has been a strange week. My first thoughts were “What would I do if I have breast cancer?” I felt the area of my left breast where the density was found and couldn’t feel anything. That doesn’t mean much however…growths the size of quarters can be missed by self examination. “I don’t have any of the traditional risk factors!” I thought. I have no family history, low density breast tissue, I had kids and breast fed…I can’t possibly have cancer! According to the brochure I read at my last appointment though, the only guaranteed risk factors are being a woman and getting older. 

I imagined radiation, chemotherapy and breast removal. I really like my boobs, and the thought of having them lopped off, saddens me. Odd how superficial my thinking became. It led to me to thinking of cosmetic breast surgery and tattooed nipples, a procedure done to help preserve as much normalcy in the appearance of the breasts as possible. The only positive with this scenario is I could upsize my chest. How could that change me as a woman? I convinced myself that if it were necessary I would opt for mastectomy without hesitation.

I imagined telling my family, my kids. I wondered what it would be like to know there was cancer in my body, the awareness that my body could hide such deadly secrets from me. My life would continue in the same routine as always and I could be slowly dying without even knowing it. I called a friend. She told me she had had to have the same second screening done, and it turned out to be nothing. I sort of believe that is what will happen with me.

But what if I do have cancer? How will my life change once I know? I started to look at the possibility of that, of a battle for my life, one that I could lose. If I only had a limited amount of time left, was I living my life the way I wanted to? That really set my mind in motion looking at my work, my family, my lifestyle, my goals. If everything is okay, can I hang on to this new insight and apply it to living more in line with what I truly want and need in life?

My husband is coming with me…just in case the news isn’t great, and for moral support. Whether it ends up normal or not, I will be thankful that I gave breast screening the chance to figure this out, and lead me in the right direction, giving me a better chance. There are two ways this could go, and there is the possibility of dramatic life changes today. I am praying for it to be nothing. I am hoping for more time living healthy and without fear. I am trying not to sweat too much (I couldn’t wear deodorant again today). I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Cellulite!

Photo by EDgAr H. creative commons.

I found myself staring at a young group of high school girls today. They were huddled around their coach during a team timeout at their high school regional championships. I played high school volleyball once…ah, glory days! I admit I didn’t remember our shorts being quite that tight or short or my buttock being quite so perky and bulbous. I was sure the majority of them must be wearing thongs as there were no panty lines evident. Thongs still aren’t on my radar, my ass is too sensitive for foreign invaders.

I noticed surprisingly, that these young girls have evidence of cellulite at the back of their thighs, which led me in a new direction of thinking. I recall a friend who is Seinfeld like in his pickiness about the women he dates. No prize himself, he has rigid standards for the women he has on his arm, including a no cellulite rule. As I watch these young athletic girls with their traces of cellulite I start to wonder how many such women exist and why the hell he would judge the entirety of a woman based on the back of her thighs? Hot young women have cellulite! Eva Longoria has it (I saw it in one of those bad celebrity bathing suit pictures in a tabloid once). What about cellulite does he find so offensive?

Victoria secret models don’t have cellulite, but I think that has something to do with their bodies strange habit of distributing all 1 ½ percent of their body fat to their boobs, leaving none for their behind. That and air brushing. (God, if I only had my own airbrush!!) There are only about 12 Victoria Secret models, so their body type can’t be the norm. The normal woman has some body fat and it distributes itself differently in everyone. Cellulite occurs around the hips, butt and thighs, and often the heavier we are, relative to our own body types, the more prominent it seems. It isn’t a disease or disfigurement, although societally we see it as one.

According to a Mayo Clinic Article, it occurs when fat that lies between your skin and underlying muscle is pressured unevenly by taught fibrous cords that connect the skin to the muscle. Depending on the network of fibers and the amount and distribution of your body fat, cellulite will vary in appearance and severity. The only surefire way to reduce it is to lose weight. Creams and massagers don’t work because they can’t redistribute these fat cells or break the fibers linking the skin and muscle.

I have cellulite, and notice that the heavier I get the further down the back of my thigh it moves. The skinnier I get the less I have. Once during a post first-love break up, I became so depressed and anorexic I lost a huge amount of weight. This was the only time in my life I had no cellulite, including my buttock. At an average healthy weight, I have a modest amount of it. Most women I see do (seem to notice it pool side in the summer). Who will be left for my poor friend to date? Victoria secret models are few and far between, not to mention out of his league!

I have a theory about my friend that applies to all other middle aged single, never married men I know. Tragically, these men as mere teenagers were unfortunate enough to date a fledgling underwear model. Each of them became ruined for anyone less than perfection and any subsequent woman could never possibly measure up. They had their hottest women first. I see these young teenage boys today, all gungy and pimply, walking arm and arm with the most beautiful nubile girl, and know instantly that he will be ruined forever, burdened with unrealistic expectations.

I only feel bad about my cellulite because society tells me I should. I am unwilling to starve myself so as to protect others from the offense of my cottage cheese thighs at the pool. When wearing swimwear, I ought to put a sign back there for anyone who is looking, blaming those nasty connective fibers, and explaining there is very little I can do about it. I could also just continue to wear progressively longer and longer bathing suit bottoms as I get older and fatter and my dimples sweep down my legs. Those tankini-maxi dresses aren’t so bad!

On this day of exciting volleyball, I am warmed by the notion that even these sweet young things are haunted by cellulite. I feel comforted that this just isn’t something middle aged women get…it is normal. I expect my friend will one day have to turn a blind eye to all of the little faults in women he finds unacceptable, lest he remain alone forever.

Come in Radio China!!



Bike Boobs
photo by Bilbord99

 W hen the machine that has been crushing my breast finally releases, I am slow to look down, certain my breast will stay that shape permanently. This is only my second screening mammogram and the whole process is still foreign. Just like the annual “girly check up” this procedure remains modestly embarrassing and uncomfortable, no matter how many you have had. It isn’t painful, at least for me, I have heard some women say it hurts a lot. There is just something odd about a total stranger getting that friendly with my boobs. I admit that as I get older, my level of discomfort has decreased, but hasn’t completely disappeared.

My favorite thing about the procedure is all the free breast cancer awareness marketing items-pens and notepads, nail files, mints, brochures, pins etc. While in the waiting room I stuffed my purse with pens for my friends…they are pink after all! You certainly must admire the marketing done for breast cancer awareness! Pink ribbons are everywhere! The worst part of the appointment is looking at my hospital wrist band that states my age…in writing. I am still convinced they are mistaking me for someone else. After 39 I stopped counting, and when asked how old I am I have to pause…and am often not precisely sure if I have given them my right age.

I was told not to wear deodorant… I am a little worried I might start smelling, but so far so good. Must be the aluminum in it or something that can cause the machine to explode…or just make it hard to get a good image. I am still searching for an effective alternative to aluminum containing deodorant. Something about the link between aluminum and alzheimer’s makes me nervous, but not nervous enough to have B.O.

After I swab any residual deodorant from by pits and place on the shawl like gown, I enter the exam room, with a surprising level of comfort with this complete stranger handling and mashing my breasts. The machine is a free standing contraption, situated in a patient friendly, “homey” room (part of the new hospital attempt to not look like a hospital. Don’t tell the decorator, but even their pink wallpaper and plastic flowers can’t hide the conspicuous looking hospitally machine sitting there, waiting to smoosh my breasts. As the technician begins to position me and my chest against the two plate like pads, I focus on getting the position just right…almost like a personal challenge to demonstrate my tremendous body control and ability to follow instructions. I am concerned by how difficult it seems to briefly hold my breath while the image is taken…it isn’t that long but somehow I just can’t wait to breathe. As she shoots each of the four images, I work on improved breath holding techniques, and by the end it seems much easier.

When she is done with the image taking, a strange part of the appointment follows as she puts the images up on the screen and quickly flashes through them. Her demeanor and presentation are so similar to my first experience that I am convinced these technicians are trained to say the same thing. I look closely at the pictures believing that if there is anything nefarious, I will certainly see it. I also look at her face closely to see if there is any indication of something wrong. The first time I had the exam I was convinced I had seen something, and I awaited the bad news over the next week. Happily it was negative and my inferior skills as a radiologist were verified. I am a little more relaxed this time, knowing that these technicians make no attempt at all to read the images, but merely confirm the images are good enough quality. She obviously works very hard to not give any information at all.

I return to the change room and quickly spray on some of the thoughtfully provided spray deodorant. I also continue to pilfer the free pink goodies and fill my purse to bursting. I briefly scan a brochure that illustrates the size of a tumor that self breast examination can miss compared to what a mammogram can pick up, and it surprises me. Tumors the size of dimes or even quarters can be missed with self exam. It is currently recommended that a woman have an annual mammogram starting at the age of 40 even if she doesn’t have a family history (family history has to start with someone after all). The brochure states that your risk factors for getting breast cancer include getting older and being a woman. Check and check. If there is a history of breast cancer in your family, you can opt for earlier screening as well.

There was a recent commotion in the medical community about reducing the frequency of exams as well as delaying the age at which they start. There conclusions were loosely based on a couple of studies. I was so miffed I read the studies and critiqued the recommendation and sent it into the dissenting organization. The Komen foundation fought that recommendation ferociously. Statistically breast screening with mammography saves a substantial amount of lives. It behooves all women to connect with Komen to protect these valuable screening tools and prevent insurers from no longer paying for them. Most insurers include annual mammograms as routine care and pay 100% for the examination.

I should hear back from the doctor within seven days if they find something or get an all clear letter in ten if the screen is negative. I am happy this is just a routine screening, and I can make light of it. When the technician checks you in she asks if this is a routine appointment. I can only imagine how different this experience would have been had the answer been no.

UPDATE:

Ironically after posting this post, I received a call from my doctor!  And yes, it is within the first 7 days.  Seems they found a density, and I am off for some additional screening.  "Probably normal tissue" they say...but we will see.


ww5.komen.org