A college girlfriend–my first, a year older than me–turned to me one day as we lay together in my single bed, afternoon light streaming through the blinds of my dorm room. “Feel this,” she said, suddenly and quietly, moving my hand across her breast. There was a small lump, the size of a pea. She turned her head toward me, “I’m really worried.”

Suddenly, those objects of my adolescent sexual desire became so much more complicated, as source of joy but also real human concern. I think I grew up a lot in that moment.

I hope she’s okay; I can’t think of a not-uncouth way to ask.

This reminds of the day one of our staff members brought in an instructional aid intended to assist women in finding breast lumps. It was a rubber breast, very real-looking and feeling, and all of the women in the office took turns trying to find the lump. There were actually two lumps, but most of us couldn’t find any, and a couple found one.

One of the guys picked it up and found both within seconds. We looked at him, and he shrugged and said, “It comes with experience.”