I hate the color pink.

To be clear, I am not referring to the “pinkification” of our daughters. My daughter, completely of her own accord and despite constant discouragement from me, adores the color pink. While listening to the oldies station when she was about 3, she heard Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” immediately followed by John Cougar Mellencamp’s “Pink Houses” and thus her life’s goals were born – to live in a pink house and drive a pink car. God bless her. It’s not for me.

I’ve always looked askance (SAT word!) at the persistent use of pink in connection with the breast cancer fight. Not because I don’t support the cause, but because the color makes my eyelid twitch. Walking around any suburban mall during Breast Cancer Awareness month, you are assaulted by pink stand-up mixers, pink cupcakes and pink athletic supporters. Does it all have to be so Pepto-Bismol-y?

To reiterate, I hate pink.

I like to think that my humor is my greatest strength. Everything can be funny if you cock your head to the side and get a slightly different perspective. So I am choosing to find the funny now.

Cause it turns out I’ve got the breast cancer and the pink ribbons, stand-up mixers and athletic supporters are for me.

Sonofabitch.

I like my boobs. They may point due south and they may fall into my armpits when I lie down and there may be stray hairs I have to pluck every few days, but they’ve been with me a lot of years. And while I didn’t find them all that cooperative when trying to breastfeed twins or feeding an 11.5 pound baby who probably would have preferred a hunk of Italian sausage, I never considered that they wouldn’t always be here.

I’m still not sure what my treatment plan is going to be. I may keep both of the girls, I may lose one or even two. I don’t really know much of anything yet. But I do know that if I hadn’t decided that my New Year’s resolution was going to be to stop putting off a mammogram and get the girls squished, I wouldn’t know what I know and I wouldn’t be assembling my army and getting ready to fight.

So go get your boobies squished and say a little prayer for me that all will be well. My early prognosis is good and there is no reason to think that I won’t be nagging my granddaughters to get mammograms.

And maybe I’ll buy my husband a pink athletic supporter. Because you’ve got to find the funny.