I enjoy a good movie as much as anyone, but for me to sit still for two straight hours requires three things: bad weather, a long run finished, and the possibility that Russell Crowe might appear on the screen. Otherwise, count me out.
But I snapped to attention last week upon hearing the news that Angelina Jolie had removed her breasts. Or rather, surgeons did, at her request, to dramatically cut her risk of getting breast cancer. It was one more step in the canonization process of a bad girl turned saintly mother, and while I think hers was a reasonable decision for a woman of privilege and means (not so much for women in the undeveloped world), there was a tiny part of me that was a little bit jealous, thinking, “Man, if I only I could have a double mastectomy, I would be so much faster!”
Yes, horrible, I know. And I can say that only because I am blessed (so far) with good health, and have never had to wage fierce battle with the Big C. But my friends who have fought it bravely did so with a generous dose of black humor, and so I hope they understand. This is my truth: My breasts get in the way of my running. They affect my gait, my speed, my self-image. Read more