Save the Boobies...

I feel kind of weird writing about breasts.

Perhaps its because I don't have them, exactly.

In my parents house, they weren't a topic of conversation.

I don't think there was actually a taboo ... we didn't have many of those.

As a subject, breasts just never came up, except in the occasional conversation about the care and feeding of infants.

They weren't objects, or factors. My mom had them, her friends had them, but the conversation never centered around them.

I can't remember them ever actually being mentioned, and the comment being followed up.

I remember my first Playboy magazine, and Penthouse, and Oui. It wasn't lost on me that my fellow fellows were passionate about them. How they looked, how they felt; later, if they were flesh or silicone.

Over time, breasts have certainly earned their place in the conscious part of my life. I've been privileged to have lots of them enter my world, and add a bit of comfort.

As different women have entered and left my life, I've appreciated breasts here and there, but in context, I don't think I have ever really given them their due.

I've always intrinsically understood that from an economic standpoint, the breasts of America are a market unto themselves.

Put a naked set in a movie--even a crappy one, and the men of the world will put a million dollars in your bank account.

Build a better bra, and the women of the world will bring a billion dollars to your doorstep.

Design a better implant, and in THIS generation ... the xx's AND the xy's will literally shower you with cold, hard cash.

Breast is this awesome word that silently conjures up a thousand happy memories.

There aren't many words in the English language that can create a response without a sentence around them.

Breast can.

As can cancer.

I don't understand cancer, don't know what it is, or where it comes from, or why it sometimes appears without warning, leaving almost instantaneous death in its wake.

Other times it seems to appear on a whisper, and hangs on for years ripping a human's insides apart thread by thread until there is nothing left but an essence of life, with no smiles or happiness to grab onto for stability.

I can't ... "see" it, like I can see so many other things. I have no concept of what it smells like, or sounds like, or how it feels, at least not outside the human body without a context or a platform.

Put those two powerful words TOGETHER on a piece of paper, or a blank part of a computer screen, and something almost tangibly ... evil(?) seems to stare back at you.

Breast cancer.

Even now, as I type it, it looks oxymoronic, like angry clown or stupid President.

And I guess its the ribbon thing that ties them together.

I'm not a ribbon guy.

I don't think there are enough colors to contain our crises, and I'd hate to find myself in the Obamaesque position of having to explain "why" I've gone a day or year without a particular one.

I remember yellow. It meant bring my husband home from Iraq (the first time).

Red's huge. That's for the aquired immuno-deficiency syndrome.

I've seen green for the earth, and white for ... pet rescue, I think. The rainbow one intrigued me, and some guy downtown tried to get me to buy a black one for the Jena six.

I donated, but didn't take the piece of cloth.

The first time I saw a pink one, I think it ... well, startled me a little bit. I honestly thought it was a lesbian thing, maybe? I like lesbians, and while I haven't been offered a roster spot on their team, there wasn't anything threatening about the little pink ribbons that started popping up.

Then we hit the part of history (thankfully) where the breast cancer survivors found their megaphone, and started to speak up.

And I discovered that some of the women I admired most for their ... spunk, earned it through the trials of fighting the oxymoron.

Everyone has a cross to bear. Some people achieve the most commendable parts of their character through the specific trial they've spent a lifetime fighting.

But you know what?

I'd love to see women lose this particular avenue to strength. Motherhood, and wifedom, and keeping the world connected and functional is a big enough superhighway to confidence.

From the male point of view, rising breast cancer rates mean that eventually, more and more of us are going to have to stand next to a woman that we know, love, and can't imagine living without, and squeeze her hand while we beat back fear tears and wait and hope that the source of most of OUR strength can summon her internal fortitude to rally her own.

I'd like to see that end.

I'm not a "joiner" of things, anymore. I don't speak on behalf of any organization, or movement, or particular approach to a cause. I just speak as a guy, who loves breasts.

And tits and boobies and melons and tatas and jugs and any other nickname we've given the literal source of nutrition, comfort, and aesthetic joy we, as men, take for granted until the biopsy comes back positive.

Some will raise money; others will spend thankless hours in a lab, separating evil cells and trying potion after potion to find the one that makes them scream out in pain before curling up and dying.

A few will fight the good fight, and trailblaze blueprints of inspiration behind to make the fight easier for the next generation of fighters.

Wouldn't it be awesome if we could save the boobies, so the next generation never had to learn that fight?

If you have boobies, please check them for lumps, and get your mammograms, and do everything the little pamplet tells you to do.

If you've already lost one or both to this horrible entity--guess what? You're even more beautiful and necessary than you were on your most perfect bikini day. Smile for me. You made it!

And if you're just a guy like me, still in awe of a set that makes you look twice--get in here and help do something.

I'm just a writer. I type words on a screen, and make donations to this cause because I've finally matured enough to scream to the world...

SAVE THE BOOBIES!!!!!!

Peace,

--Stew.