Here’s my disclaimer: if you’re a guy reading this, and “women problems” freak you out, send your mouse running for the back button as soon as possible.
This is pretty personal, but I figure everything I’ve written here, is already so incredibly personal that I might as well spill the rest.
Sunday morning, after lazing about and watching Twilight (yes, I like Twilight. No, I’m not a crazy “fanpire.” I’m just a fan of undead eye candy), I hopped in the shower. While I was scrubbing up, I found it… a dreaded lump.
Hypochondriac that I am, I immediately thought to my 24-year-old self, “OMG, I have a lump on one of my ta-tas. I’m going to die.” The rest of the day I had a silent mental freakout and whenever I had the chance to duck into a bathroom stall, kept poking at myself to see if it had gone away. Nope, still there.
This inward stress-fest continued until I got to work Monday morning, when I decided to woman-up and make an appointment to see a professional. I hastily scanned the list of providers at my clinic until I found a woman listed amongst the reproductive health doctors.
To make a long story short… apparently my weight loss is to blame, inadvertently. Because I lost so much weight, my bras were no longer supportive enough, causing a ligament to become inflamed and more noticeable.
I left the clinic red in the face, for sure, and headed to the nearest Target to pick up a cheap (but smaller band-sized) bra. So here’s a tip to all the women on this journey with me: support your ladies upstairs! 😉