I've never mastered the womanly arts. I do my best to wear matching shoes and right-side-out blouses—though sometimes I fail even these modest standards. This week I hit a new low, however.
In my effort to put breast cancer behind me, I've been wearing prosthetic breasts—or foobs, as they are called in certain circles—to work. Because bras rub me the wrong way, grating against my scars, I buy extra-large camisoles and fold them in half to form a pocket to hold the breast forms. This works great and makes me look much more like other women you might encounter.
Unless, of course, I happen to lie down on my side to take a nap on my couch and the forms slip and I fail to notice when I get up that I have two boobs on one side of my chest and none on the other. Then I look considerably less like other women.
Being a woman is hard!