Getting abreast of the situation

Author's Note: I know I have a few readers of the male persuasion, which is fabulous, of course, with me liking men and all. But the following is intended for a female audience. I've got material too rich to pass on, but I really don't care to share it with anyone possessing both an X and a Y chromosome ... unless you happen to be my husband. In which case I hope you know who you are. So, if you don't have breasts, you'll need to skip this one. Or, at the very least, pretend you did.

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My mother-in-law, Sandra, says that as we age, medical tests get steadily more invasive and dehumanizing.

I'm beginning to see that may be true. Certain events took place, which had me taking a trip to the radiology department last week for my first mammogram.

Yippee.

The procedure was mostly about peace of mind, in light of an It's-Probably-Nothing concern. Of course, like most women, I'd heard about how getting a mammogram is even more fun than an annual pelvic exam. And I'd seen the stock photos of a woman getting one. Those pictures usually show the woman from behind, perhaps partially draped, while a sweetly smiling tech (let's call her a boob technician) takes an x-ray from behind the protective screen.

It's quite clear why you only see the back of the patient. The kindly photographer is shielding you from the fact this woman's boob -- besides looking like a week-old, Dollar Store balloon wedged under the dresser -- is being pulled two feet from her body by a $300,000 vice. They like to call it a "mammography machine." Wink. Wink. And the tech is smiling because 1) her boobs are not where yours are, and 2) you look ridiculous.

The whole procedure, while necessary and not particularly painful, is pretty much an exercise in humility. In situations like that, I find it's best to roll through with humor. My boob technician, it turns out, was a former student of my mother's and remembered me from when I occasionally accompanied Mom to school. Life is funny, you know. One day you're 11 and shyly waving hello to a roomful of teenagers. The next day one of those teenagers is 42 and telling you you'll need to wear nipple stickers. That's what she said. Nipple. stickers.

I lifted one eyebrow.

"We're all out of tassels," she deadpanned. Thus I discovered a boob technician after my own heart.

The whole clamping ordeal -- you must get in as much breast tissue as possible -- reminded me a bit of trying to get an overstuffed pillow into a starched case: you shove on this side, and it pops out the other. My job, I was told as she positioned and tightened, was to relax. Yes, relax.

At that, I couldn't help but laugh out loud -- which of course created jigglege, which then necessitated reclamping. Eventually, though, I just sort of checked out of my body and watched remotely. Not exactly like Shirley McClain, but with that part of myself that takes notes to process later. And here's one of the things I noted: It is possible, even when one's mammary glands have gone from oval to linear, even when a virtual stranger is sticking metal-tipped stickers on parts of oneself never intended for accesorization, it is possible even then to continuously suck in one's stomach.

Because, by golly, a girl has to maintain her image.

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