The Squish

Every year for more years than I care to count, I dutifully take the girls (a/k/a the twins, the boobages) for the squish. My first squish was memorable for two reasons, 1- the technician's head did not come up as high as my breasts and so to hoist the either of the girls onto the appropriate spot on the machine required her to execute what looked essentially a two handed overhead slam dunk with the one or the other as the basketball, ok more like a softball but you get the idea. Needless to say, I was hysterical with laughter because I'd not ever before or since seen my breast at so unique an angle, not to mentioned handled in such a fashion by a perfect stranger whilst I was sober but I digress. So I'm in this state of hysterical laughter and of course, one need be stock still for the xray. And of course, once they put the machine into that very special mode known as FLATTEN IT! the laughter ceased, nor did it return for any of the remainder of the mammography as Lefty required a total of 8 trips through the wringer. Lefty has a lot of calcium deposits,as I used to fight, a lot.

I now go to a specialty breast center ( or as I like to call it, All Breasts All the Time) and I know the drill, as do the girls, who trembled in fear within the comforting confines of my bullet proof sports bra, at least until it was time to put on the robe. FYI - when you go for a mammogram the usual instruction is strip from the waist up, put on the robe. And as I'm a girl who shops in the Vast sector of most major department stores, most off the shelf robes don't fit me, happily this one did, but again I digress. So the drill: whip off the robe (most places will just let you whip one twin out at a time if you're a modest kind of gal (but I like to show off my ink), step to the machine, follow the instructions of the technician. And you want to follow the instructions of the technician because she's got your boobage in her hands and is placing it on the plate where it will transform in shape. Well, BJ, the technician directed me ably and the communication flowed admirably until such time as she had my breast pancaked in the machine, my arm draped around the machinery and my chin(s) tilted up, out of the way of the xray. The resulting muscular tautness ran from my hamstrings (which cramped, I hate that)to my skull and rendered me pretty close to speechless, aside from an occasional muttering of son of a bitch. And then she had the unmitigated gall to say relax. I howled with laughter, loudly. as this was among the most absurd things I've ever heard in my young queer life and mind you I work for the government. Probably would have laughed up a lung had it not been ably trapped in the fucking machine. To add to the indignity, somehow my nipple had managed to curl beneath my breast in fear, so we had to reshoot that mammary portrait. This involves decompressing the breast, having this perfect stranger rearrange it and squish the living shit out of it again. I finally mentioned usually before my boobs are handled thusly we'd have had dinner.

Happily, the doc had good news for me. Perfectly normal. Which I absolutely prefer to the more clinical, unremarkable. Hell, that these boobages are not down around my knees is pretty damned remarkable.

So, if you find yourself 35 or older. Cowgirl up and get it done.