"Go ahead and take that off. Let's see what you've got going on." I had decided that I needed to go back to the store to get what I referred to as a "sporty boob." A lighter weight prosthesis that I could wear at home on nights and weekends. Something to basically shove down a sports bra instead of the stuffing boob. The sales person at the bra-and-prosthesis store, let's call her Michelle, was friendly but matter-of fact, so I couldn't be a sissy about it. I slipped out of my tee shirt and stood there in the things I had bought at that same store last fall. She frowned. She circled me, tugged on the straps, and pushed on the silicone boob. She turned away to look at the paperwork she had printed out. She shook her head. Something wasn't right. She took the prosthetic out of the mastectomy bra I was wearing, and said, "This is not at all what I would have put you in." I died a little inside. My first trip to th...