After a lump scare in my mid-20s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word, and it’s totally OK to get to second base with yourself, but getting to second with a woman donning a lab coat and a sick sense of humor is even better!

So, it turned out to be a cyst? A cyst; why didn’t I think of that? Where is there even room for a cyst in these double A’s?

Like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.

I had heard horrible tales of this test, and it’s crushing pain from older generations, like the passing of folklore. I feared the impending torture and dreaded what little my child bearing and breast-feeding had left unscathed would be permanently altered.

By the time my appointment had rolled around, the fear of having something less benign started to set in. If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind? The closer I came to the appointment, the more the anxiety weighed me down — pressing me to skip it, to stay home and play sick.

Somehow, my legs and car were on autopilot, and I arrived at the office with time to spare. In the waiting room, I saw a woman not a day younger than 100. If she can do this, so can I. But then again, she’s old. She’s lived her life; she has less to fear. She’s seen her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, maybe even great-great... As my mind started to spiral into faulty reasoning, they called my name. Phew.

My tech was a brash woman who was incredibly verbose and clearly missing the filter most of us are born with. Maybe there is some kind of de-inhibiting process that occurs when looking at tatas all day. I’ll have my husband test my theory at the next bachelor party he attends.

“OK, let’s see what you got in the bra,” was the tech’s icebreaker.

“The last time someone used that line on me, he didn’t even get to first base, let alone second.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not lookin’ to make out.”

Clearly she skipped Socialization 101, also known as kindergarten, but I can banter with the best of them, and I concentrated more on my retorts than the fear of what was coming.

When I reluctantly disrobed, she cooed, “They’re so cute and perky.” Then she giggled to herself and mumbled something about getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.

Though it’s been years since someone actually laughed at the size of my chest, it felt oddly familiar, and I patiently waited for the requisite pointing to ensue.

Luckily, I’m not easily embarrassed. Being a card-carrying member of the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Comitteee) prepared me for nothing, if not this.

Not that the IBTC was a club I longed to join. I desperately tried to make them bigger. If shear will power wasn’t enough, surely pairing it with chest pumps would do the trick. I must have done a million chest squeezes while chanting:

We must, we must, we must increase our bust. The bigger the better, the tighter the sweater. The boys are counting on us.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. What’s a bra without a bust?

Who would have thought such a brilliant plan would fall so, ahem, flat, especially when the seventh-grade girls pinky-swore it was totally fool-proof. Yeah well, I’m still an A, so who’s the fool now, seventh-grade girls?

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.