Now I know I'm getting old

Despite my occasional flair for the dramatic in matters of the heart, I'm pretty level-headed in general. When a stolen car sped down the sidewalk towards me once in grad school, for example, I walked to the nearest tree, stepped behind it, and watched as the car slammed into it, spewing spards of broken glass onto my feet. Three people were hospitalized; I got an internship from the NPR reporter who interviewed me.

For years, I've shrugged off my mother's frequent cancer scares, refusing to get worried until she'd been to the doctor. (When I was 14, she spent an entire year indoors, convinced that any exposure to sunlight would instantly give her skin cancer and she would DIE. After a year of that, you'd take her with a grain of salt, too.) My attitude has always been that while it's good to be aware of your body, you can't overreact to every passing bump and spot.

Which is why this morning in the shower, when I found an odd bump and my first thought was "Cancer?!" I knew I was getting old. That's just not like me.

I don't mean to sound cavalier. I will make a (long-overdue anyway) appointment with the girly doctor. But with surgical scars, adhesions, and a general predisposition towards lumpiness, odd bumps are just part of my package.

I promise to keep an eye on it for the next few days, and to keep the girly appointment no matter what. And be kind to an old lady, wouldja please?