As if the annual mammogram is not awkward enough, I am one of those women whose anatomy requires the addition of two small stickers with what appears to be a tiny b.b. in the center of each. I call them “mammo ammo.” They are placed in the standard erotic dancer positions. The least they could do is attach a couple of tassels to them. It would make the occasion much more festive, as well as give me a couple of souvenirs to take home.

I like to refer to my annual mammogram as “The Pressing of the Breasts.”It gives it the air of solemnity and reverence usually reserved for foreign coronations, although the “mammo ammo” kind of cancels that out.

Once I got into the exam room, the technician held me hostage by cranking “the girls” firmly into a vice. She then stepped behind her kiosk and directed me to “stop breathing.” In what other occupation does a person tell you to “stop breathing,” except maybe a serial killer who is about to smother you? And she said it in such a calm, soothing voice. It was a little creepy. I half expected her to come from behind her kiosk with a pillow in her hands and growl, “I thought I TOLD you to stop breathing!” I did not want to die topless and wearing nipple pasties.

When it came time for me to change sides, she instructed me to, “flop out of that sleeve and change sides.” I kindly asked her to stop using the word “flop” regarding “the girls” when she is talking to a woman my age. I do not need to be reminded that Isaac Newton was right about gravity.

After every change in position, as she cranked me, she said, “Good job!” in the same encouraging tone of voice I used to use when my son successfully “pottied” like a big boy.

Good job? Is she talking to me? I am standing up firmly pinned into a vice. What job did I perform? Is she talking to “the girls”? The last time they performed any useful work was before I weaned my son back in 1977. Since then, they basically are useless, lazy appendages. I should sign them up for unemployment and disability.

Whew, I feel better getting that “off my chest.”

On the way out, I ordered an 8 by 10 and a dozen wallets.

 

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