ovaries vs. NOvaries

Very recently, I was diagnosed with the breast cancer gene–the one made famous by Angelina Jolie.  The diagnosis has left me with some mixed emotions, mostly centered on how, exactly, I should reach out to Angie for support and, oh, maybe a lifetime of friendship and camaraderie, but at the very least a happy hour near her home in France.  I’ve been waiting a lifetime (or, one-third of a lifetime, depending on my anticipated and hopefully late age of death) for a tie to her like this, and after my fleeting and highly unsuccessful participation in the Model UN (Haiti was screwed long before I was assigned to represent it), I started thinking it would never come.  Praise Jesus or, in this case, science.

Although A-Jol and I aren’t yet as tight as we soon will be, I’ve nevertheless started thinking through my options, all the while focusing my desired course of action on her course of action.  Most definitely, her life consists of one good decision after another (we’ll forgive her for Billy Bob, everyone goes through a I’m-on-way-too-many-drugs phase), so why wouldn’t I try to replicate her decisions?!  I wouldn’t.  I mean, I wouldn’t not.  I would.  Jesus.

As everyone on earth knows, AJ wiped herself clean of potentially-fatal-and-potentially-cancerous lady parts and, like any rational rich person, upgraded to a new set.  I just upgraded my apartment and am in the process of upgrading my car tires and windshield, so in terms of priority upgrades, there is something of a waiting list.  Sorry body, people can actually see and have to ride in the Subaru.  Get your mind out of the gutter …

Even if I had enough money for a new set of tires and boobs right now, I’m still a bit torn on the ovaries removal.  What good are they anyway?  I’ve never gotten a home-cooked meal or night on the town out of them, although they’ve certainly accompanied me on a few–nights out, that is; a home-cooked meal in my world is rare.  Word on the playground is that they’re vital for childbearing but word in the criminal justice system is that children would not be my forte.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been blatantly instructed to not breed, but the request has been made fairly clear by law enforcement and mental health professionals alike.  Point taken.

Ovaries happen to not be particularly good looking organs, as is evidenced by my side-by-side comparison, in which you can hardly distinguish between the ovaries and overbearing mammals (OK, there’s an insect in there, too).


Maybe if they looked like boobs I’d be more inclined to keep them, but after searching the internet for images to use in this post (obviously without attribution–I’ll get better at that, I promise), I have to say, I’ve never been more inclined to get this evil-eyed praying mantis out of my pelvis.  But would I regret it?  Would buying eggs from Whole Foods just not be able to replace the novelty of making my own?  Will I get drunk enough to want kids some day?  What if, by harming a manatee, you could save two manatees, but before you answer consider this–the manatee you’d have to harm is pregnant?  Yes, that question is still keeping me up at night …




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