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For some reason I had a hard time getting a decent photo. Really, it's not much different than the previous two scarves, aside from the colors.

When I finished boobie scarf #2, I had the following converstion with Wendy:

Me: I don't need the pattern for the boobie scarf anymore. I've got it memorized. I can knit tits in my sleep.
Wendy: That's gonna look awesome on your resume!
Me: Yeah. I'm hoping to gain employment knitting for the adult entertainment industry.

Seriously, I'm sick to death of knitting boobies. It's not that they're hard. They were at first, but now that I've knit 96 individual boobs, they're easy. Too easy. Methodical. The kind of process that gets wedged in my brain and I find myself mentally doing them when I'm nowhere near my yarn. The only thing I can compare it to is, when I was 15 years old and spent 14 hours a day in the hot August sun, slinging sodas at the Missouri State Fair. When I'd finally crawl into bed, sweaty and sticky because I was too exhausted to shower, I'd imagine filling wax cups with Pepsi as I was falling asleep. Yeah, it's maddening.

It occured to me, of course, that I can just quit, which is what I did to that job on the fourth day. Three scarves is good. It's a nice little bit of money in Komen's coffers. It was fun and novel and cute, but no one's making me do this. I can quit anytime I want.

But then something occured to me. Do you know what's a hell of a lot harder than getting a little bored with knitting the same scarf over and over? Walking 60 miles in three days, that's what.

Do you know what's even harder than that? Going through chemo, or recovering from a mastectomy. Or waiting for biopsy results, waiting for the cancer to come back, waiting to die.

Suddenly, knitting boobs doesn't seem bad at all. It seems like an honor and a priviledge, something I should be thankful that I'm healthy enough to do while I sit at Starbucks for hours with my friends, or while Clara Jane leans against me on the couch, or while B. and I watch Walk the Line, knitting for three hours straight. I should be grateful to wake up with knitting-induced claw-hands the next day, grateful that I'm healthy, and so are all the women I love. If my deformed claw-hands do just a little bit to keep us that way, then it's worth it.

So, I'll keep knitting boobs until they total a perky little 160 (that's five scarves-worth). I might even do more as penance for even being so silly and lazy as to think that it's too boring or too hard. Here's hoping that knitting a lot of boobs is the hardest thing any of us ever have to do in our lives.