Happy 40, here’s your hospital gown…

Turning 40 means many things: wisdom that comes with age (so I’ve heard),  no longer feeling silly about using Retin-A, not being able to mock Big Sis for being so much older than me…

Turning 40 also means being initiated into the yearly mammogram. There is nothing like sitting in a room full of nervous women in hospital gowns (all trying not to act nervous) to make one really want a cocktail.

Why hasn’t anyone invented a mammogram/martini party yet?

I don’t ever remember contemplating my mortality as I did this morning, looking around at the not totally unpleasant waiting room (yezzzzzz, very zen-like, no doubt done by decorators equipped with the Feng Shui), waiting for my name to be called. Something about stepping into the unknown, thinking everything is fine at that moment but realizing one quick snapshot could upend my life?!?!?!

There is feeling of community in the waiting room, knowing each of us are there for the same thing. Different ages, races and sizes, but all with the same question in mind. Will they find something? Will I be the one for whom everyone wears the pink ribbon?

The actual process was a letdown. All that nervousness for 10 minutes of pulling and prying my flappy small breasts into the machine to be smooshed, only to see a picture that means no more to me than an inkblot. Then I find out I have to suffer through 4 weeks of waiting to see whether the breast gods deem me lump-less…ugh.

Now where’s my birthday cake??

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