It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's mammogram time. Joy!
Seriously, mammograms are important. Plus, mammogram is a fun word to say. Every time I say it, I think of the Mel Brooks movie Blazing Saddles, and the scene when he announces, "Candygram for Mongo." Sure, you know what I mean: "Mammogram for Mongo!" ("Mongo love mammaries!")
I walk into the health center, get myself all registered, head to the back, take off my shirt and bra, wipe off the deodorant (some of us had to work today) under my armpits, and do another pass across my chest in case I have body spray lingering from getting dressed hours earlier. I throw on that lovely open-air, front-never-closes partial johnny, and walk into the technician's room.
After checking me in and matching my information, she says, "You've lost weight."
Well, I don't believe that I have. I pretty much wear the same size pants (okay, maybe one size down if the pants have built-in stretch in the denim). Now, I have never met this woman before in my life, so this is kind of weird to me, but I say, "You are my favorite person!"
"I don't know," I tell her. I honestly don't. I've had some weird health issues these last couple of years, so I have been making a conscious decision to change my eating habits. Well, semi-change my eating habits. I still like chocolate in moderation, and I am still a bread and cracker fiend.
"Well," she says, "I think we can use the smaller paddles!"
WAIT. WHAT?!?! Smaller . . . What the hell. What the serious hell.
Do you mean to tell me that all the black and blue marks, the actual rib bruising, the pinched skin on the front of my arm pits, the horror, the pain, the torture of the last decade is because you see me as a blimpous fatty boombalatty?!
And, worse than that, you technicians can chose your goddamn weapons?!
While my boobies (and I) are quite pleased to have a tiny bit of relief (moderate on the pain scale as opposed to "holy crap, I think I need percocet"), I am somewhat disturbed that my perceived weight should be the determining factor on breast-squishing machinery. Let's be serious. My bra cup size isn't getting me any dates. Even if I weighed ten pounds more (or ten pounds less), my chest isn't going to be that different. It wasn't until I was largely pregnant with my first kiddo that I even knew boob-sweat was a thing.
As I leave the changing room and head back toward the waiting room, I wave to the technician. Now that I know about this whole secret paddle-size thing, I think I might drop ten pounds for real by this time next year. Who knew there would be such strong incentive for the Mammogram Diet?
I know; it beats the alternative. Trust me, I really do know this several times over, which is why, despite the discomfort, it really is the most wonderful time of the year.
