Today I went to go get my annual boob smash. Yahoo! LOVE getting my boob smashed. Why don't they provide margaritas in the waiting room? I think being drunk during a mammogram should be a requirement.
So the lady takes me back and instructs me to undress from the waist UP and to put on the little half cape with the buttons towards the front. Easy enough.
I saunter out, and she gives me a strange look, but quickly moves on to the business at hand and instructs me to put the right gal on the x-ray plate, lowering the top plate down for the vice. OOOOUUUUUUUUCH!
"Hold your breath," she encourages cheerfully. I diligently hold my breath and hope I don't throw up instead. That would just be gross and uncalled for. Plus I HATE that pink stuff they put down to clean up spew.
She comes back out and asks for the left gal to have her turn at the get down, take it all the way to town, mutha' of all squeezes. The pressure on the girls is ten times more painful and invasive then any 7th grade boy frantically trying to get his squeeze on with your itty bittys behind the band room at St James Catholic School- before anyone comes around the corner. Not that I know of such torrid things. (It's just what those older, slutty 8th grade girls told me.)
About the time of the second "hold your breath" while this machine serves up some woman breast pancakes with a side of YYYOWWWWWW, I look down. What the hell! Somehow, in my extremely nervous state, I managed to take my whole dress off and am standing in the middle of the room in a cape, thong underwear and 4" blue suede high heels. Whhhhaaaaaaaaaat?
She comes back to help me assume the position for the side view. She sees I am looking down.
"Ummmm, well, I guess I didn't follow instructions, " I say as I avoid eye contact. "I can go back and put my dress on."
She laughs. "Naaaah, we're almost done."
She takes 4 more pictures, each time making sure my boobs are perfectly pressed and squeezed. The flat slab even ROTATES. Your boobies get to go on a little ride while you assume awkward positions made even more awkward if you are standing around in impossibly high heels and a thong. I am soooooo embarrassed and uncomfortable. What a dorkmo! As soon as she is finished, I scurry back to the dressing room to put my dress on. I try to nonchalantly leave the room as quietly as possible. She is looking at my boob images already.
"You breast tissue is very fibrous, so we may want to do an MRI just to see things more clearly."
"Uh, Okay, " I mumble.
GREAT! I get to do this again! I love to be pressed, pancaked, vice gripped and humiliated. Wahhhhooooo! Next time, I'm shootin' for FULL non compliance and going commando with thigh high hooker boots made of black vinyl. And I'm stealing the little cape as a memento of the occasion. It will give her something to talk about, and I can leave there already dressed as the go-to superhero for distressed strippers.
( HEY KIDS! - Serious Super Hero Saturday a.m. "Cautionary lecture/moral tale/do the right thing 30 second blurb before the Hot Wheels and cereal ads come on" spiel starts here: A breast exam is NOT that bad. Do it! Men, encourage the woman in your life to do it! Go with her and go in first! Do the empathy exam.....NOT your balls- your man boobs. Do this! Go have a margarita, get your thigh highs on and rock that exam!)
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