It was a post “Pink October” incident that made the dreaded thing we do not speak of, along with its pink association, pop into my distracted brain.

It happened on a warm November evening, during my soap, lather, rinse routine in the shower. I caught a frightening glimpse of my naked self in a very poorly positioned mirror, reflecting the occupied shower. Scaring the royal crap out of myself not only because I thought for a second that I wasn’t alone in there, like a scene from a horror movie, but even more so because of the reflection that I was confronted with.

To skip the drama, let’s just say I noticed a rather obvious irregularity with my lady peaches. Immediate inspection began, but without reason, my brain had already pulled me off to the dark places.

Almost with no pause, a survival tactic known as “The Ostrich Effect” kicks in and I convince my brain that all is hunky-dory. “Lumpy, funny breasts mos run in the family,” I console myself.

Fast forward a few days, the consoled brain wore off and a million other unwanted thoughts kept nagging at me until my brain was like,
“Get checked chickenshit!”

In this instance not literal chicken shit but a phrase that means someone who is lacking courage, scared or a coward.
My brain is a total bitch sometimes!

Now I’m the kind of chick that goes to bed with a bra on so being half kaalgat in front of a stranger whilst getting my peaches squished like a s’more, is not high up on my list of courageous things to do today.

But after a few days of turmoil between me and my brain and some reluctant 2 am pep talks from someone who is very familiar with my lumpy peaches, I managed to pull myself towards myself.
Full disclosure, some Dutch courage was also involved.

The tribe has spoken! More Dutch courage might be required but with a kick, shove and a drag, I will put my best lumpy, imperfect little breast forward and go get squeezed.

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