Today the spinster aunt contemplates swim-wear. Specifically, nonboobal swim-wear.
What’s the big whoop, you ask?
Well, it’s like this. If a gal with a couple of lumpy scars where her ta-tas used to be wants to go swimming in public, the sartorial considerations are complex. You’d think nonboobalosity would simplify things, as it does for men, by taking the top out of the mix and more or less boiling down to a pair of novelty Hawaiian-print board shorts. But it doesn’t. A top one must wear, if one is female and desires to be admitted to one’s sibling’s country club pool.
That’s what my sister Tidy says, anyway, nevermind that it’s loony for a chump like me to wear a top, since swimmy bras have all that fabric in the gazongal area, which fabric, if it is not filled up with gazonga, just poofs out there, conspicuously superfluous and unstreamlined. Whereas the case for bottoms can be made (for all sexes) in the interest of pube containage, a bra on a boob-free person amounts to an entirely gratuitous entanglement of the upper torso in pointless, gender-role-affirming cloth. Apparently, if I were to saunter in to Tidy’s club pool without a swim top, even though I am now entirely devoid of anything that needs to be supported by a swim top, I would make everyone ‘uncomfortable.’
Check it out: a double mastectomy does not, it turns out, relieve a woman of her patriotic duty to have boobs. One must maintain the illusion for the common good.
Which must be why people ask me all the time “aren’t you going to get reconstruction?”*
They ask me this even though ‘reconstruction’ reconstructs nothing but compliance with the patriarchal mandate. It is painful, invasive, non-therapeutic surgery involving not the reconstruction of mammary glands, but the implantation of synthetic foreign matter (or of tissue excised–no joke–from your abdomen), the object of which is to restore the indecently disfigured cancer patient to an adequate state of femininity within a boob-sick society by saddling her with inessential dead weight.
Sure, I’ll get reconstruction. Just as soon as you staple a couple of two-by-fours to your nuts.
As for taking a dip, I guess I could nip down to Barton Springs and be as rudely unmammaried as the day I was born, but the water in that swimmin hole is 68 degrees, dude, and as everyone knows, the obstreperal lobe is particularly susceptible to shrinkage.
*An anomaly in the wild world of professional breast cancer, my boob surgeon alone expressed approbation of my decision to stay flat. Of ‘reconstructed’ breasts she opined, “They look like baseballs.”