Radiology Girl vs the Stable Waistline

I moved back to California last week.  Not just Anywhere, California, but this time i migrated south to Long Beach.  I expected a totally, diametrically opposed way of thinking to what i was used to in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I failed to consider this: no matter where you are, and what people are going through, women will always have womeny similarities in the way their minds work. 

Take for example, my friend, Susan.  She had the nerve to freak us all out a while back by getting cervical cancer.  We kept in touch by email, but this is the first chance i've had to sit down and really talk to her.  (And yes, she's in total remission for those of you who were about to fret for her.)  Here's what vexes her most about the whole ordeal.  Despite all the ghastly treatments, she never lost weight.

Now, Susan is a far cry from morbidly obese, but she does have some cushioning.  (All the better to hug you, my dear!)  Any horrific event that puts you through an ordeal ought to grant you one of the few benefits offered others going through the same ordeal.  This was a clear case of the Gods of Disease thumbing their noses at her.  Susan is, under normal circumstances, one of the calmest individuals i know.  A bit of an earth mother type, actually.  Boy howdy, though... get her going about the bald faced audacity of cancer letting her down rather than slimming her down, and the eyebrows go straight through the roof!  The hands are planted palms down on the table as if to shove it through the floor in a fit of pique.  The voice goes from alto to soprano and needs no megaphonic assistance to get the point across.  To Susan, this is an unbearable outrage!  A cheat!  An atrocity not to be borne!  Can i get an Hallelujah, Sister!  Yep, i'm four square behind her here.  That sucked.

There are other things about the C ordeal that vexed her to lesser degrees.  One of them was the hair thing.  Fortunately, what with it being cervical cancer, she didn't lose the hair atop her head.  Unfortunately, to her mind, while she kept the draperies, the carpet abandoned her and she was left with a hardwood floor, so to speak.  I would have considered this a bonus and a good chance to save razors and contortions.  She's more of a native look afficianado, so it seems.  Nonetheless... her disease... she gets to call the annoyances.  Had it been me, i would have been in a bikini EVERY day!  Sympathy factor drops on this one.  Sorry, Susan, that's just the way i roll.

The last and most perplexing of her side effect irritants is the whole publicity aspect.  Why does breast cancer get so much publicity while cervical cancer gets left in the dark?  Is this fair?  Hardly.  I figure, however, as a real estate agent, she ought to get this one without a second thought.  Location, location, location, baby!  Nobody without arthroscopic vision can see your cervix.  On the other hand, everyone can see your boobs, or at least the place they ought to be.  You don't find herds of flat cervixed women flocking to plastic surgeons demanding puffier interiors.  You don't find sugar daddies doling out cash for enhanced uteri.  They don't have a restaurant called "Cooters".  

It's all about the brightness of the headlights.

Besides, there's something just a little off putting about diseased goal posts hidden under darkness of layers of underwear, jeans, etc.  Especially the sort that eats you alive.  It doesn't matter that everyone on the planet knows for a fact that cancer isn't contagious.  There's still a creep factor involved in something that never sees the light of  day.  Also, it's located in the place a lot of guys spend a lot of drink money aiming for, then it turns out there's a big sign on the door that proclaims "No Admittance!"   Nobody's running around wearing Cervical Cancer Awareness Black Panties of Doom bands on their arms to give the poor guys a heads up (or down, as the case may be.) 

So there you have it.  Guys can run around all day grabbing their nuts and whining about testicular cancer, but if something happens below the belt on a girl, it's still considered a revolting development.  Now, the last thing i want is for there to be yet another month out of the year dedicated to a disease.  Myself, i'd rather have Dandelion Appreciation Week, or Buy Your Unemployed Neighbor Another Dirty Martini Month.  All i'm saying is this...Guys, sometimes a girl won't let you in her pants because you have the manners of a goat.  But there are other times you can't get to third base because despite the pleased look on her face at your arrival, and the turn down at the end of the night, it might be something a little more serious.  Stop getting icked out and know you made her day.  Who knows?  If guys could stop getting icked out, girls might be able to tell them, without cringing, that they think they're fine fellows but it's just bad timing.  Should that day ever arrive, you might even be able to leave the bar with your egos in tact.  I'm just saying.

Lily Robertson, who thinks radiation treatments ought to come with complimentary massages and boxes of chocolate, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or on Facebook.com.