I was standing in the restroom at work, door locked, lifting my shirt to press a folded paper towel under my left breast.
It was 1:15 in the afternoon. The second time that day.
The skin underneath was bright red again. Burning. That familiar wet, stinging feeling I'd been dealing with since my mid-forties.
I already knew what would happen next. By 5 PM the fold would be raw. By bedtime it would itch so badly I'd lie on my back with my arms over my head trying to let air get to it. By morning, I'd cover it in powder, get dressed, and start the whole thing over.
I was fifty-two years old and I couldn't make it through a workday without hiding in a bathroom to manage the skin under my own breasts.
And the worst part? I'd already "treated" it. Dozens of times.