A few of my friends in high school used to say that they really wanted to see me drunk. Sounds a bit like they weren’t the best friends, slightly awful, in thirty something year old hindsight. Though, I actually think they meant it as a compliment. The implication was that if I was as crazy and weird and unfiltered as I was sober, how much more entertaining would I be under the influence of some wine coolers? Maybe some weed? I’ve generally felt like alcohol really just made my routine, normal conversations and behaviors a little more socially acceptable. I tend to talk too much, share too much, say inappropriate things and do impulsive things, regardless of if I’m completely sober or a little tipsy.
Sometimes, I do have extrovert’s remorse. When I reflect back on a conversation and replay it in my head, I think, “Whoops. Maybe that was awkward (for them) Maybe I shouldn’t have shared so much.” And….it’s too late. It’s hard to shove those runaway words back in. I’ve gotten to be pretty good at apologizing for my wreckless talking. Buckle up. It’s the lead footed, swirving all over the place kind of conversation. Curb checking? Most likely. Maybe my friends just thought it was the one and half beers talking. Because who really talks about having a third nipple as a child?
Apparently, this typsy extrovert does.
My friends told me I should blog about it. My third nipple. It’s as if I can hear the echoes, “if your friend jumped off of a bridge, would you do it?” No. Of course not. But if they dared me to jump off of that same bridge, I probably would. Who can resist a dare? Here it is. It’s just writing. Most people know I had a third nipple. What if my brief third nipple blog would help another feel less alone? The mystery is uncovered. Revealed. Kind of. I used to be like Chandler Bing. I was one of the one in fifty women. That’s right. Who knew? One in fifty women. (Google search)
Supernumerary nipple awareness blog coming at you.
I was born with a third nipple. Don’t let your mind go to weird third nipple land. It looked more like a birthmark. You can google it. Well, not mine. You will most likely see a hairy chested man with a tiny third nipple. Did you know that some third nipples could be in random places on the body? Mine wasn’t that cool, it was just under another one of my nipples. I didn’t do anything crazy and get my little third nipple pierced as a teen or anything. Unfortunately, I actually got it removed during one of my surgeries for Crohn’s disease. My surgeon noticed it which seemed a bit awkward for my nineteen year old self. What was he doing up there? He casually asked if I wanted him to remove it during my next surgery. It was like a three for one surgery deal. It may have been the surgery they were fixing my gut, removing some staples from my knee and oh, yeah, removing my third titty. RIP, third titty boom, because that’s what we called them as kids.
It really is a funny story. A bit of my birth story. Two parents anxiously awaiting the arrival of their fourth (and most precious) child. Watching “I Love Lucy.” Then, boom. Go time! Birth time. “Waaah. Waaaaaah. Hello, world.”As my mom and dad wait to hear the report from my kind doctor on how I looked. “She perfect….only she has a supernumerary nipple.” What the…..? And cue my father’s response, “She’s got a triple tit?” Cut the supernumerary crap. Welcome to the world, little one, with three nipples. Did you know Marky Mark also had three nipples? And Carrie Underwood? Yeah, I Googled it. Turns out, three’s not such an exclusive crowd.
My bathtub routine growing up entailed me being called, “Triple Titty” by my older sisters. What was worse than the extra body part name-calling was that I usually had to sit in the back of the pink tub. You know, where all of the leftover cold water hung out. It sounds cruel. And it kind of was. Though I survived. I’m sure my big sisters were probably just jealous that I had an extra nipple. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
In hindsight, maybe God knew what He was doing. He knew I might need it in the future. And maybe I shouldn’t have let my colo-rectal surgeon remove it. How could I have ever known? Free will happens. Good one, God.
My first pregnancy and the second ultrasound revealed twins. Say what?! Fast forward to postpartum. As it turns out, it was easier taking care of twins when they were inside of my uterus. They needed to eat. A lot. And it was hard and demanding work breastfeeding tiny twins with just two nipples. Real hard. Maybe that third tiny titty would have come in handy. As the lactation nurse so eloquently stated, “your anatomy is just not matching up with theirs.” Really? Surely there is a Hallmark card you could have given me to soften the blow. Hello, remorse accompanied by the new mother’s inferiority complex tears. Unofficial diagnosis…Supernumerary surgery removal remorse. It’s kind of like I’ve had breast reduction surgery. Which seems odd considering the size of my other two assets.
Oh my. Just know, dear friends, that no, it was not the alcohol talking. Unless that makes you feel better about me. I have a problem. An over-sharing. Over-talking. Over-bonding problem. And well, an over cooking food problem too. I may burn something like your reuben sandwich, whether I have had the beer or not. That toast gets me nearly every time.
If you don’t come back to our house, I won’t take it personally. Really, I get it. I have a hard enough time understanding myself sometimes. And I’ve lived with myself for well, thirty six years. “Why would you say that, Amelia?” I semi-embarass myself on a regular basis. But I’m used to it. Thankfully, my husband usually has had more to drink than me. Tank sevened. And he thinks I’m funny. And my kids are still a bit young to be too embarrassed by what I say. Or write. So that’s good.