Yesterday was the big boob bashing appointment, also known in refined circles as the mammogram. I've reached the magical age of forty and am supposed to have one every year or so. I'm in the "or so" camp and it took me three years to get up the nerve to go back after the first one. I have one word to say about the entire experience...
Plus, the emotional havoic it wreaks... the tech is just so matter of fact about it. She grabs your nekid boob and just slaps it up on the little shelf, like she does it all the time. Okay, she does, but I certainly don't and would like a little dignity, please. I'm the one standing there with my chest exposed. She moves you here and moves you there and then starts screwing down the top shelf. Her goal is to smash your poor helpless boob flatter than a pancake!
"We have to get the breast away from the rib cage," she says.
But it's attached to me, by way of meat and flesh and nerves!
"Okay, don't breath," she says.
Trust me. I'm holding my breath.
I was complaining to my daughter about having someone manhandle my breasts and she told me, "Come on, Mom, they're just boobs."
Okay, this is NOT the sentiment you want coming from your seventeen-year-old daughter.
"No, they are not just boobs. I hexed yours when you were a baby. If anyone touches them besides you, they turn into toads!"
She raises her eyebrows and snorts. I'm going to have to do something with that child.
Speaking of that child. I want to give my baby a big shout out as today is her birthday.
And today's album title is pretty easy... any guesses?