Why, yes, that is the most obscure and boring title ever. Thank you for noticing.
You're all perched anxiously on your seat to know the outcome of my *dum dum dummm* MAMMOSMOOSH.
I would be too, inquisitive reader, especially if I hadn't been through that glamourous experience before.
Well. Let me just be frank and say-- man, I've never felt sexier.
This was so much worse than that time in 9th grade when my mother shouted to me through the dressing room door how to put on a bra. It went something like this: "Bend over and shake them into your bra! Are you shaking them in? Are you bent over? Am I shouting loud enough for you to hear me?" (Why no, I'm not scarred by that experience, why do you ask?)
It was so much worse than the entire school bus turning to stare at my Rocky and Bullwinkle t-shirt after Landon Hessler announced I had big boobs. So much worse than childbirth, with my legs stuck in stirrups and my mother in law and sister in law in the room, me trying desperately not to cuss out loud. Also trying not to poop on myself.
There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING to make you feel sexier than seeing your own breast smooshed between two pieces of plastic.
Wait. I take that back. The last nail in the coffin of unsexyness is when the mammogram tech-person comes over and manhandles your breast until it fits correctly into the mammogram plasticky pieces. THAT, my friends, is so much fun you'll want to do that every single year. Just for fun. Like going to the girly doctor.
So, yeah. Unsexyness.
But thankfully, nothing abnormal or weird was in my bosomy areas. So, I really can't complain.
Next week? Surgery.
*dum dum dummmm*
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