We had beer in the boardroom at lunch today, so I find myself late this Friday afternoon drunk at work. Being drunk at work as an adult is a little like being drunk at home when you are a teenager: an alien feeling in a familiar place. (Though, it should be noted that I work in publishing, the original industry of now-frowned upon three-martini lunch; publicists like myself do what we can to keep this tradition alive. It was my boss who showed up with two Heineken pony kegs and told us to get busy boozing. It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last.)
I may be a little lispy and heavy in the eyelids now, but I didn't need liquid courage this morning to do what I've been putting of now for months: I picked up the phone and scheduled my surgery. I'll say that again. I lifted the receiver off the cradle, dialed numbers, and requested that my boobs be removed from my body. Tentatively, this will happen on December 18. Which is five months from tomorrow. Holy shit.
I'm keeping this brief because my typing skills are a bit compromised, but I wanted to put this out there now (because everyone knows that once something is on the internets, it is real). The countdown begins. My natural ta-tas are on their farewell tour. And so is my anxiety. Because five months and two days from now, I won't have to worry 24/7 about breast cancer anymore.