Flatter Then A Pancake

It's that time of year again. No, not wreaths, tinsel and mistletoe. It is time for my annual mammogram. Time for the girls to be smashed flat, squashed beyond recognition all in the name of early breast cancer recognition. There is a history of breast cancer in my family. My mother is a survivor. 15 years ago she was diagnosed from a mammogram. As a result I take my mammograms seriously. I don't blow them off, much as I would like to do so.

This year there was no wait. I filled out my paperwork and was wisked right in. Not even time to read a paragraph of my book. The skimpy pink johnny was too small as usual. They apparently do not have the onetallmomma size. And as usual the place was cold. Goosebumps cold. Again, an annoyance but survivable.

Even the technician's ice cold hands on the girls as she mashed them into her machine was more of an irritation then anything else. It was after my left breast was mashed flatter then a pancake that she told me not to breath.

Was she out of her ever lovin' mind? Not breath? Would MOANING be permitted? How about a small SCREAM? Gnashing of teeth? All I could think of was "Push the fuckin' button....NOW! Release the girl please, oh, please, oh, please............"

Repeat three more times.

I brought the girls home and treated them to a hot bath and a glass of wine. Thank all that is holy that it's only once a year. And next year I plan to drink before the exam.