So I started the day by getting molested. Not really. I was medically molested.
I met a strange woman in a parking lot and let her feel up, squeeze and photograph my boobs.
Mobile mammogram. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Nah, send it back the gutter. It’s much more fun there and that is clearly where I was leading you. My bad.
I’ve had some Gestapo-like boob inspectors in the past, but this technician was pretty good. Except every time she got my ta-ta tightly positioned and ready for it’s close up she would remind me not to breathe.
Um, yeah, like I can breathe while you are smashing my tit between two plastic boxes.
For all the fondling she did, I thought she should have offered to buy me lunch or snuggle.
A mammogram could save my life. I know that. But they scare the shit out of me because I am always afraid of what they will find.
It’s been a few years since my last mammary photo session. What if a tumor moved in the day after that and it’s been partying it’s malignant ass off in my boob until it’s trashed the place and the only option is demolition?
But I can’t think negatively. I love my boobs. My husband loves my boobs. And I plan for the four of us to be together for a long time.
Happy Breast Cancer Awareness Month!
