First off, if you think this post is going to be about the wonders of digital mammography, you're wrong, because I don't even know what those wonders are. But I will say this post is about boobs, and not the hot kind. So, if you don't want to read about boobs unless it involves low-cut blouses or visible cleavage, just stop reading.
I had my mammogram today. That wonderful rite of passage for women over 40 because, hey, who doesn't need yet another thing to look forward to, after expanding waistlines and new wrinkles? I arrived on time (ok, not really but I was only about 6 minutes late, which, for me, is about as "on time" as I get), and checked in. Just as I was filling out a lovely questionnaire that included drawings of boobs, I was called in to "get changed". Now, I'm familiar with the "here's your gown, take everything off from the waist up, gown opens in front." But at this particular location, I was ushered into a "changing room" (which had no door, but a curtain that would not close the gap on either side, no matter how hard I tried). Stacked neatly, were triangular folds of cloth, which I presumed to be the gowns. Oh, no. I stripped to the waist and proceeded to put on a.........cape? Yes, I was Superwoman, or O Mighty Isis or some other superhuman, braless, boob-saggin' character. Once I figured out how the thing worked - seriously, ONE snap, at the neck and no other way to "cover" those boobies unless you clutched the thing to your chest like a bank robber holding a wad of cash. Once I was caped, I was instructed to put my belongings in a locker. The only lockers available were floor level, so imagine my delight in trying to stash purse, bra, top, jacket and book (in case I had a long wait) into a locker, all the while clutching my Super Cape to my chest, while my boobs stretched and strained to reach the floor (hey, they're not as firm as they used to be! Gravity......). I somehow managed that task when a very elderly lady emerged from her dressing room asking "do you know how these things work?" I looked up to see the poor octogenarian standing there with her cape at an odd angle, clutching it just as fiercely as I was. I attempted to help her which resulted in a rather hilarious display of both my 40-year-old breasts (after all I had to let go to help her) and her 80-year-old breasts (as I tried to angle her cape just so and fish for the ONE snap available!). After I was way more intimate with the poor lady than I should have been, I finally sat down to wait, clutching my cape with one hand and attempting to read a magazine with the other. After just minutes I was called in by a cheery woman who announced she'd be doing my mammogram today (yay!). Once in the room, all modesty was thrown aside as this woman manipulated, squashed, squeezed, lifted and spread my breasts, smashing them between two plates of glass so that I thought that yes, perhaps it WAS possible for my breast to just rip away from my chest wall. After each tortorous interval she said "I know this is not comfortable" and I just smiled and tried not to cry. Blessedly, once she got her pictures the machine had a "release valve" and those plates popped open. I swear my breast gasped audibly in relief! When it was all over, I again arranged my cape to cover as much of my breasts as possible and marched out into the waiting room, where I was met with three other caped avengers. I announced "That was FUN!" and turned the corner to the dressing rooms. As I was dressing, I noticed my breasts had taken on a fierce red color, as though they had just been slapped. Tucking them into my bra, I silently said a prayer that everything comes out normal. Because from what I hear, if it doesn't, the next mammogram is akin to a cement mixer running over your chest. And I'd just as soon bypass that torture. My poor "girls". Perhaps they'll forvige me if I buy them a really pretty bra? Personally, I think they'd feel better with a shot of tequila. Or two. One for each.