It seems lately I cannot post a blog that does not include the words "boob" or "breast". In keeping with this theme....
Today was my yearly Mammogram. If you are under 40 and have never had a lump or worrisome history, then you have not enjoyed the pleasure of having your boobs squeezed into a vice. (This yearly test may save your life so please do not skip it! I am not here to give you medical advice so please do not sue me.)
I am here to tell you that after you have your first mammogram, you will feel the need to have a cigarette and a shot of brandy. You will feel the burning desire to scream, "What is the point of wearing this Johnnie if 99% of my upper torso is already naked while you twist my breast 180 degrees, squeeze it, vice it, and direct me to simultaneously stick out my butt like Mrs. OohWiggins? How exactly does the Johnnie help my dignity?"
After some intense research (Google), I confirmed that a man did, in fact, invent the mammography machine. No gal pal I know would torture another sister in this fashion, unless she was messing with her private stash of chocolate. Then, totally justified.
I know this machine can be a life saver. And I feel sorry for these poor technicians who do such a phenomenal job but have to resort to Cirque De Soleil maneuvers to get the scan just right. And I think about what they see (and touch!) on a daily basis. It runs the gamut from floppy fried eggs to mammoth watermelon jugs. They definitely need an award, or a chest to pin it on, as my mom likes to lovingly point out.
Turns out, I passed this year's exam with flying colors, thank God. And I will go back again, exactly one year from now. What can I say, I am a glutton for punishment.
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