B, My Name Is Breast

The last week in August, I was conscripted to attend what seemed like an inordinate number of faculty orientation meetings (particularly as I've been working at two of the three institutions for more than a year) and was thus forced to wear several variations on the infamous "Hello, My Name Is" sticker. You know the ones. They're blue, and really annoying, and they look like this:

(whilst searching for a suitable image that didn't have something rude scrawled in it, I discovered they also apparently come in red. Who knew?) Anyway, I have always found them particularly annoying, not only because I'm antisocial at heart and would prefer to introduce myself only to people who are actually interested in finding out my name, but also because I've never found an appropriate place to affix them.

Let's think about this for a second. I am a woman. I am, in fact, a petite woman. I am also small of torso, being instead mostly leg. Tradition and modesty dictate that we affix such labels to our lapel area, or, failing actual lapels, to our upper chest on either our left or right sides. And frankly, in my case, there's not a lot of real estate there. What there is, is mostly already taken. So to speak. So it's awkward. And often slightly amusing, particularly in warm-weather attire.

I always feel sort of sad, though, when engaging in this most innocent of social overtures. Because while my left breast is out there, announcing itself gaily (Hello! My Name Is TheFireCat) my poor, unadorned right breast sits there, sulking. It, apparently, has no name.