Editor's Note: Houstonian Lacy Baird made the difficult decision to undergo a double mastectomy and hysterectomy after discovering she had a strong genetic probability of developing breast cancer. Here she explains why.

A Chinese legend about a young prince who favored a concubine for her delicate, tiny feet, motivated entire dynasties of Chinese families to practice the debilitating custom of foot binding in order to make their daughters more attractive to suitors. Ironically, these small feet, which made running relatively impossible, represented freedom from manual labor to these women.

Funny, I have never met a man who preferred for me to just sit stationary at the house all day with my tiny toes. No, I think most American men would rather have their women fetching morning newspapers and after-work glasses of scotch.

In Cleopatra’s time, women flocked to the Dead Sea as if it were a Chanel counter to rid themselves of skin irritations, the burdens of desert living. They would idly pass weeks, even months, in the spa-like salt vat to clear their skin in an effort to catch a man’s eye. Yet, in my daily struggle of balancing real estate showings, my daughter’s equestrian lessons, and the occasional treat of a lap around the Memorial Park loop, I could not possibly imagine wasting even an afternoon soaking up sodium when I barely can make it down the street to the salon to touch up my roots.

Today, we seem to be all about boobs, the magical, fleshy orbs of seduction we use to manipulate our men and intimidate other women. In some twisted cultural tornado, we have convinced ourselves that our happiness and luck in love are relative to our boob size.

I guess that Maxim could explain why breast augmentation ranks right up there with a sports car as the prized high school graduation gift. Motivating our young women to improve their GPAs by offering cup-size enhancements, how crazy is that? Me, I will never reward my daughter’s straight A’s with silicone.

I wonder why women put their faith in boobs. Well, for one, reality televisions shows, like The Real Housewives of Orange County, prove to us that women with big boobs often get the bigger house, the bigger diamond and the Black Amex. In the few years I have watched the show, not one of the women has ever impressed me with her literary background, social grace, or tasteful fashion sense.

So, if a nice house, a wedding ring and some change in your purse sound appealing, you had better join the strain of the women upgrading their cup size to try to improve their lives.

So all of this, centuries of self ridicule and reconstruction, for a man to love us, want us? But, what are we supposed to think when these boobs, with so much promise, can hurt us and maybe even kill? Mine probably would have killed me.

Through fun-runs and pink ribbon drives, most women today are familiar with the risk of breast cancer. One out of every eight of our mothers, sisters, friends, and daughters will deal with this disease. When you picture a dinner party with your closest friends and family, the numbers are frightening, and the fear hits home.

Yet, breast cancer death rates are on a slow decrease. We know more now about the disease, so we must prevent, not just treat. Stop the killer in its tracks.

I come from a family of cancer, my mother, diagnosed with breast cancer at age 65; my father, a known carrier of the BRCA2 gene mutation (the cancer trigger); my paternal aunt, an ovarian cancer survivor; and my paternal great-grandmother, a breast cancer victim. With the odds not in my favor, I realized that I would probably spend a large chunk of my adult life reading last month’s magazines in a doctor’s office waiting room and playing mind games with myself in the radioactive tampon tube (MRI chamber).

Lying perfectly still in that hellhole was not the life I envisioned for myself. What about love, children, and vacations to Paris for heaven’s sake?

I did the smart thing. I asked my doctor for a genetic test, a check for the mutation, available as a blood test or a buccal wash (swish and spit). When the results confirmed my DNA was BRCA2 positive, I actually felt relieved. I knew there were options out there for me.

I was not going to be a breast or ovarian cancer survivor; I was going to be a pre-vivor. For once, I would be the one to catch cancer off guard and make the first move.

I became obsessed with tearing out every magazine article featuring mastectomies and printing every email about BRCA2 that I could find. My daily to-do list rapidly transformed. In the most prominent position, squeezed right in front of finding a new husband, choosing a chandelier for my bathroom makeover and locating cheap, but chic hair extensions, I inserted the task of researching a cancer-inducing DNA mutant.

Talk about a shift in my priorities! I would hide the research clippings in a folder that I called my cancer stash, kept safe under my bed so that every night when I went to sleep, I could rest knowing that even if I were alone in my bed, I was not alone in this fight.

With my sassy attitude a la Pat Benatar, I challenged my doctors to hit me with their best shot. I tried to schedule the double mastectomy, the reconstructive surgery and the hysterectomy for the same day.

Was I crazy?

Maybe a bit overzealous. But in my mind, I believed taking responsibility for my cancer gene enabled me to control my fate and reaffirm how much I loved my life and myself. I was not challenging cancer or dueling with death for a man. I was fighting for myself!

When we love something, we have to take care of it. Same thing goes for our bodies. We have to exercise, try to limit the margaritas, take the tests that will help us prevent possible threats to the treasures we hold so dear.

Research your history, learn if you are at risk for the BRCA2 gene; and if you are, dutifully consider the option of a preventive mastectomy. Upgrade to safer, less-saggy, man-magnet knockers.

Because, no matter how tiny our feet, how clear our skin, or even how outrageously huge our boobs, we still owe ourselves the chance to LIVE and define beauty on our own terms. If not for us, than for our daughters.

 Baird, who just returned from a Paris vacation, is in the early stages of working on a memoir tentatively titled They're Just Boobs.