Reissuing this oldie in honor of a day many of us dread: the ridiculous No Bra Day. Keep your unmentionables hidden and support research that aims to cure metastatic disease.
You’re either a bumper sticker kind of person or you are not, and I am firmly seated in the latter group. I cannot think of a single thing I need you to know while we queue to brave the rotary. If pressed to slap something on my fender, I might be able to commit to, “You look pretty!” My community service call to action would resemble: “Did you make your bed today?” And the most politically polarizing statement I could muster is an endorsement of only white Christmas lights. (I’m actually kind of passionate about that one.) So today, as I inched the entire length of Beacon Street behind a “Save the Ta-Tas” truck in threatening weather, I wondered who convinced the owner of this otherwise serviceable vehicle to besmirch it with pink ribbon dreck.
Obviously, my reaction was informed heavily by my Cancer-versary. So whatever “Save the Ta-tas” intends to protect, it’s certainly not my patience. We never see this inane message translated into testicular cancer awareness in order to sell stickers. Defend the Danglers! Safeguard the Stones! Protect the Plums! Keep the Cojones! Oh, the hilarity of designing t-shirts that urge women to Cup Your Husbands for Cancer! But this is for sale:
The mission statement from this dreadful ta-ta advocate is that laughter heals. Well, sort of. Surgery removes cancer, chemotherapy intends to zap stragglers, and laughter makes the whole bald nightmare tolerable. But no amount of hee-hee-you-said-boobies humor kills rogue cells. And until we have a cure, launching a slogan that insinuates saving a cancerous organ is just irresponsible and confusing when it stops being sophomoric and insulting. Are we supposed to “save” our breasts at all costs, succumb to shark bite surgery and post-operative radiation that turns the ta-ta into a dried fruit approximation of breast-ness? Is this the message of “Save the Ta-tas?” Breasts are not endangered animals, and cancerous ones are unlikely to have a longer life expectancy for the five research projects you’ve funded with a pittance of the proceeds from your disrespectful swag. I can only imagine the weight of all of those horrible jokes on the good scientists whose work will be expected to atone for them.
An oft-viewed post on this site is Things to Say to People With Cancer. Because wordpress.com practically assigns you a blog at the first mammogram abnormality, we blabby girls in the Shitty Sorority become a Google-searchable source for cancer information and attitudes. I’ve been asked about Komen, and this Ta-ta nonsense, and even how to contribute in a grand gesture way. It’s quite simple. If you have time, donate it to your friend with Cancer: she’s too tired to ask. If you have money, contribute to funds for metastatic breast cancer research, because that is the disease that kills us. The Ta-tas don’t need saving. And no one needs goofball slogans about boobies intended to support the very women who don’t have them.
Well, that was an uncharacteristically shout-y, probably post-traumatic little rant. But I stand behind it with the full weight of my implants. Now go make your beds, my pretties.