I had the honor of speaking at the Fairytale Tea Sunday. What a day—the decorations, incredibly powerful women and of course, the cause. You know Happily Ever After League is near and dear to my heart and yesterday my heart was full.
I heard a lot today about how nice it was, that my speech was good—that sort of thing. And I have to laugh (don’t I always) as I think, “If they only knew. If they only knew.”
Sunday morning, having coffee with Middle Chicken, I am gripped by terror.
“Do you think they’ll be able to understand me?” I ask. It’s not like there’s a damn thing I can do about it the morning of, but I’m panicking anyway.
“Mom,” she snaps in her exasperation tone. “People can understand you. It’s fine. Have you never seen Samantha’s cancer talk?” She’s referring to Samantha of Sex and the City fame. Evidently, there’s an episode of Sex and the City for any situation. Middle Chicken just happens to have it at the ready on You Tube.
Turns out, Samantha is to give a speech at a breast cancer event. She, herself, is just recovering. Her hair is not grown back so she sports a wig and she’s sweating profusely. All this time, I thought the sweating was left over menopause. Nope, it’s yet another cancer gift. Thanks bitch.
She begins to talk. She’s sweating. She’s mumbling. She’s not catching her group. They’re starting to talk amongst themselves. And, in Samantha fashion, she says, “Oh fuck it,” whips off her wig and says, “This is the face of cancer.”
“You are that badass,” says Middle Chicken. From her lips was my prayer as I mounted the stairs to the stage.
I told them I stuffed my bra and wore gobs of mascara in hopes that they would be distracted and not notice my garbled speech. They laughed as if it were not true. Even when I assured them, I don’t think they believed me.
I hadn’t stuffed my bra since eighth grade. Hoisted the girls up in various contraptions, yes, but actually stuffed, no. In eighth grade I wanted breasts so badly I created mounds of tissue that were so lumpy and bumpy not even a hormonal sixth grader would have mistaken them for real knockers. Yesterday, I was smarter.
Since cancer robbed me of butt and boobs, I figure who better to right the deficiency than Victoria herself, as in Secret. Her secret yesterday was a bra so padded it’s guaranteed to add two cup sizes. To be sure, I added two sets of cutlets and did some hoisting. No breast tissue spilled over the cups but from the side, I no longer resembled my eighth grade self.
I told the audience right up front since I can’t keep a secret to save my soul. They commented a lot on the speech. No one has yet to say a word about my fantastic rack. Pfft.
The Duchess Diaries 