Boobs and jobs. But not boob jobs, because that isn't how I roll.

I start my new contract gig tomorrow. This weekend has been like a giant Sunday-night-before-school ball of ick. Because I am a spoiled brat and don't want to go back to work.

Many of my friends are all, "Ooh, congrats on your new job! Aren't you excited?" And then I just sort of look at them.

Maybe tomorrow, I will wake up, excited to dress like a grown-up. And this will translate into being excited to start my new contract. I kind of expected that this week, I'd get excited. But mostly, I got freaked the fuck out.

See, I found a lump.

Yep. In my boob. In the same place as my 2 previous fibroadenomas, Ramon and Antoine. So, I knew from the get-go that I'd need a mammogram and sonogram, then to see the boob surgeon, then to hopefully schedule a vacuum-assisted biopsy and not a surgical biopsy. Hopefully.

I know from experience that I am down for the count for several days after any sort of biopsy. Because I am Queen of Boob Mishaps. So, I was thinking about the timing of all of this, and wondering if I shouldn't just push my job back a week or 2, because God knows I was not looking forward to a "So, let's talk about my boob!" conversation with my new, male boss.

I had a mammogram and sonogram on Friday, at the same breast clinic where I always go. The woman checking me in took a look at my face and said, "This is your first mammogram." She didn't ask - she assumed because I look like I'm 12. So then I was all, "Bitch, please."

OK, maybe I was more like, "Uh, no, look at my extensive records. They are in your computer."

And then the mammogram tech argued with me that I didn't actually have a fibroadenoma vacuumed out - that it would have to have been done surgically. Again, I was all, "Bitch, please."

OK, maybe I was more like, "Uh, yeah I did, and I had it done here. Look at my chart." What is with people not reading the effing chart?

But when it came time for the sonogram, my sweet, favoritest tech in the entire universe was there. And she remembered me, and we reminisced about the giganto cysts I had last year. We joked about how the radio in her room was playing Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing," which is probably the least-appropriate soundtrack for a breast sonogram. And then, she told me that the hard little lump I was feeling was yet another cyst, feeling all hard because it was pressed up against glandular tissue - like a skinny little white kid, acting all hard on account of puberty and general suburban angst.

I have never loved the term "glandular" more in my life. Ever.

So, no surgery, no vacuuming, no cyst aspirations for now. I go back in 6 months. The sweet tech found 2 other spots that are most likely small fibroadenomas, but we will watch them. I can live with this.

I'm so relieved. And that's totally an understatement.

I'm relieved and I'm so glad that I don't have to tell my hi-I've-met-you-once new boss about my boobular adventures. But I'm also so fucking mad.

I am so careful. I eat right. I exercise. I gave up caffeine in 1998, for crying out loud. And still I get all these cysts and bumps and shit. It's so not fair.

However, if My Guy and I ever for once doubted our decision not to move forward with the gajillion drugs and hormones and hideous procedures in The Infertility Olympics, we have a sign that we made the right call. All those hormones that I was all jacked up on this summer more than probably contributed to my new harvest of cysts and lumps and crap. So, sayonara, reproductive endocrinologist!

It's a lot to process.

So, I'm not quite ready to start my new job. But I will, and it will be fine. Or, it will be terrible and provide lots of great blog fodder. Either way.