When I was 18, my boyfriend John told me that the thing he loved about my breasts is that they stand up in a perky way, even without a bra. Other breasts, like those of his former 33-year-old girlfriend, did not have the shape of mine, he reported. Sometimes when I see my breasts drooping, feel their rounded undersides graze my ribs, I wonder if John ever realized that gravity had not yet taken hold of my young breasts, unlike those of his older ex-girlfriend. Whatever his knowledge of the physics of breasts, John’s personal aesthetics insisted on “lookin’ good.” He loved to look good and have his girlfriend look good: the latest fashions (like wrap-around pants), the latest hairstyles (like feathered, hair-sprayed wings), the latest toys (like Pong or an ATM card).

It’s curious how John has remained part of my awareness of my breasts—indeed, my whole physical body, in more ways than one. He thought I was beautiful when he first met me, followed by a year of trying to improve me. We remained friends after a series of breakups involving a girl named Candy. I wonder what he would think of me now with my unshaved armpits and my thick, relaxed breasts. At age 28, John fell off a ladder while painting a house. He died soon after. Sometimes I feel like he’s right here, telling me that the body is to be enjoyed, not fretted over, and that I’m lucky to be freer while still alive.

Women and a few men swarm around, drinks in hand, while Annie and I sit at the bar, waiting for the concert to start. I catch snippets of conversation: one woman hopes that the Indigo Girls will play her favorite song, another complains about her high school students’ inability to spell, and a third waxes philosophical about the effects of a hungry, stray dog appearing on her front lawn. I am struck by the minutiae of life, how its electricity continually buzzes. I could be sitting here with cancer in my breast, and the most familiar cliché rings true: life goes on. I wonder what hidden pain, disease, and fears the other women around me harbor. I suddenly feel a surprising affection for life’s details, as though they are excited little children whose exuberance forces us to live in the naive moment.

“Oh, look who’s here,” Annie says, and I peer over the rim of my wine glass mid-sip. A brown-haired woman stands before us, broadly smiling, displaying what looks like a bit of cream cheese lodged between her two front teeth. For a fleeting second I can’t place her. Then a shock of white coat flashes in my mind’s eye, replacing her turtleneck sweater. Dr. McFinney. It’s as though my hidden thoughts have uncannily materialized.

“What a coincidence,” Annie says. They ensue on a point/counterpoint about the Indigo Girls’ lyrics and intricate harmonies. Irrational thoughts seize me: What right does she have to hang out enjoying live music when she holds my fate in her hands? How can it be that she doesn’t notice the cream cheese in her teeth?

I have been a teacher for many years, and when my students run into me at the grocery store, I can tell they marvel at the fact that the woman who conducts their classes actually buys bananas and bread. That means their teacher is a person who has a body that engages in bodily functions. They blink at me like they’ve just exited a dark theater.

Why do we deny authorities their bodies? The body is vulnerable, subject to embarrassing noises and messy disease. The body is a personal space, and “professional” is supposed to be the opposite of “personal.” So separating professionals from their bodies imbues them with power. And a false immunity is lent through the trappings of their professional authority: the blackboard, the white coat. The figure of the professional provides us with some relief from ubiquitous mortality. The professional somehow seems to have transcended death.