Welcome to the second installment of Rachel Joy Horn’s tried-and-true-and-possibly-resulting-in-a second-dinner-invitation DOs and DON’Ts of dating post-mastectomy. Since writing my first post in November, I am still single. So maybe I have no clue what the hell I’m talking about.

At least I had a really sexy date to the company holiday party…my best friend Jennifer.

Moving on…let’s start with a don’t:

DON’T get into the nitty gritty details of your BRCA mutation, of your surgery, of your breast reconstruction—whatever it is you’re discussing. I’m not encouraging you to avoid it and I’m certainly not asking you to lie, but there are some details you can share, and there are some that you might consider keeping between yourself, your family and your doctors.

If a guy wants to know about my BRCA mutation, I give him a quick overview of how I came to be tested for the mutation. I don’t focus on the exact meaning of a BRCA2 6056delC mutation (which I’d be lying if I said I fully understand), nor do I obsess over the statistics associated with a BRCA mutation. Instead, I try to deliver the details that make the most sense to understanding why I’d elect to have a prophylactic mastectomy.

When it comes to talking about the actual mastectomy surgery, I start with a basic “I replaced the stuffing on my boobs.” I then elaborate with a much more scientifically backed “I took out the potentially bad tissue and replaced it with implants.” (I think that’s what they write in the medical journals, right?) I avoid discussing the thrilling experience of emptying the bloody goo out of my Jackson Pratt drains, the pathetic feeling of not being able to lift myself up out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom, and the crippling fear of “Oh my god, are my nipples going to make it out of this alive?!”

As one might expect, the breast implants are what usually interest guys the most. Often they assume that I could pick any implant size I want, so I politely correct them (read: laugh in their face–hahaha, you dumb fool!) and let them know that there is a sort of science involved with selecting, based on factors such as a woman’s natural breast size and chest width. They then usually want to know if I “upgraded,” so to speak, at which point I say that I wear about the same bra size I did before my mastectomy.

Ooo, implant. Squishy squishy.

Most of my concerns about oversharing stem from not wanting a guy to think I’m fragile or broken in some sort of way. I also worry about encountering queasy types; call me old school, but I wouldn’t want a date to pass out in the middle of appetizers. So instead of getting too detailed, I make an effort to highlight certain information about my surgery:

DO stress the positives. The biggest and most obvious positive is of course the dramatic reduction in breast cancer risk. But in my experience, there have been additional perks (bahaha pun) to the mastectomy and breast reconstruction.

Before my mastectomy, my wardrobe decisions were dictated by an evil overlord known as The Bra. Support was the name of the game, and if an outfit couldn’t be worn with a bra, it wouldn’t be worn at all. I was often forced to pass up halter tops and strapless dresses, or worse: I’d have to decide between chunky bra straps sticking out of a backless dress, or concealing all of it with a sweater. Talk about a Sophie’s Choice. These days, I can wear backless dresses and halter tops like it’s nobody’s business. My wallet sobs, but my wardrobe has never been happier.

Look Ma, no bra straps!

If a guy has a sense of humor, I don’t hesitate to bring up the tummy tuck possibility. Using my mom’s mastectomy and breast reconstruction as an example, I talk about how, if I gain enough weight in the future, I could replace my breast implants with stomach fat. This is definitely a glamorization of a DIEP/TRAM flap procedure, and I don’t mention the arduous recovery process, which I saw firsthand with my mom, but hey—it could be seen as a positive. My mom is living proof of this, what with her new boobs and flat tummy. Where I notice a guy losing interest is when I mention “having fifteen kids and completely letting myself go so I gain enough weight to have big ol’ jugs.” Apparently guys don’t like that? Who knew?

Geez, Mom, put those things away before you take someone’s eye out.

My final perk is, you might have guessed, visiting the Playboy Mansion. (It seems I rely on this topic a lot when dating…thanks, Trisha.) It certainly is a rare experience, and I’ve found that for some odd reason, men have a lot of respect for Hugh Hefner. I’m not sure why. Now unless you’re all holding out on me and you’ve been visiting El Mansion with your glorious implants, too, I’m going to assume that we don’t have that story in common. But that doesn’t mean your mastectomy hasn’t come with any unexpected perks. Were you interviewed by a news station and you’ve achieved a degree of local celebrity? Did you get a kick-ass new tattoo in honor of your surgery? There might be a silver lining to share after all.

Welp, it’s late and I’m tired, so I think I’ll sign off now. Must log into Tinder and remind myself why being single might actually be a good thing. #guysinLA #areallactors #wouldyouliketoseemyheadshot #crazycatlady?