The mammogram monologue: I had been putting it off for an entire year because of fear of the procedure. Women that I had heard talking about it seemed to be reduced to the kind of facial expression usually reserved for seeing vomit on the sidewalk, or discussing x-husbands. To my mind; not a good selling point. Take into consideration that I have never liked to have feminine examinations. I actually don't know anyone who does. I think the label for my feelings about a fore-mentioned procedures would be hate. Why-why-why must intimate body parts be subjected to instruments that are: cold/duck billed (!)/palpitating/flushing/dilating and PSI rated when they are attached to a person who has ISSUES.
(Issues should be pronounced eschewing the "sh" sound and replacing it with a double consonant sound of "sz"),(Should also be modulated well up into the upper registers of the vox with a vocal finish that creates a timbre imitating an enchanted singing whoopie-cushion.)(All the above notes on pronunciation actually lend the word "issues" a total of 3 syllables as follows: IS-su-es with the emphasis on the first.)
Where was I? Oh... big issues. Yes I have been "blessed" with big "issues". (I am employing the use of what is called a euphemism here to stand in the place of more seedy terms as used in the in less literary blogs. Ahem.) They have been bouncing, jutting, high beaming, diving towards down, and generally making a spectacle of themselves since 4th grade. Far from being treated like the Goddess incarnate endowed with pendulage to set worshipers at the priestess' feet, I was instead treated to teasing and grabbing by boys, and vicious whispers by girls.I spent my junior high years with my arms crossed all the time, even while walking. (Not as easy as it sounds. Apparently arms are used for balance.) Fun bags indeed.
Needless to say when I arrived at the "Breast Center" I tried to avoid using the word "breast". I didn't feel at all nice mannered when the valet (man style) used the word with abandon. And, when he asked me if I was to visit the Breast Center for a mammogram, I could swear I saw him raise an eyebrow with loutish pride at his license to say "breast" to a woman and not get slapped hard across the face. Inside the Centre' d' Buube I felt as if all the people around me were watching with a mocking my "bigguns" with a cruel knowledge. Well.. it is a mammogram center after all. Because allthe female types at the center were there for the same reason I found I had to avert my eyes from all. I felt like we were all just big mammary glands wearing dresses and moderatly stylish hair-dos. (Not an all inclusive list)
Now in case you didn't know it's important to understand that I am self conscious, and the idea of my"objects of attention" being brought out for perusal by just anyone, just sounds severely un-good. Not at all appealing. Not in the slightest. Not kidding. And, the certitude that they (according to consensus) will be squashed to within moments of high pressure bursting...sort of makes me angry in a nauseous way. Why aren't all these women giggling nervously or pacing? My thought patterns go manically like this: They all seem so relaxed. I refuse to accept that I am actually going through with this procedure. (fingers in ears) La la la la la. I will pretend that I am okay with naked dancing and hot tubbing and nudist retreats. No, no that feels like too much. I switch to Buddhist consciousness techniques attain a connection with the "present" so intense, that I acquire a spontaneous diagnosis of Autism as a backlash. Suddenly I realize that it is my turn and I began the strut of the doomed to the disrobing area.
Everything in the Palais Breast is designed to put us womenfolk at our ease. The architecture-the rugs-the art-the comfy terry cloth robe. It almost seemed as if I were being manipulated into a state of calm! Next I am in the second waiting area where those closest to the Mashing Mammogram Machine ride awaited our turns. We all sat serenely in our white robes furtively stealing glances at each other's chest regions and wondering-about-whatever-it-is we-were-wondering-about-but-probably-about-the same-thing...boobs. Yep. We got 'em, we wanna keep 'em. I became slightly queezy from the meditation video playing on the big screen plasma monster on the wall. AAAAaaaaand I'm up to bat. (To note: I never use sports terminology unless under great threat.) Into the room, off with the robe, and onto the slab went the girls! One at a time please! Please no pushing: queue up! Okay now....I had no idea the nurse would be moving my boobula around on the plastic plate like a baker with a bread dough. Ugh. I felt as if I had my ta-ta in a giant play-do pressing machine.
However, it didn't hurt at all, phew.
This is when I started to play my role for all it was worth. Note: at that instant I was in the psychological place where in an uncomfortable situation I "become" the individual who isn't scared like me. I even started talking to the technician as if my "melons" were not even attached to me. I spoke about them clinically, looked at the digital photographs, didn't even wince when she pointed out my nipple in the picture. (Silent screaming could be heard on all 7 relative planes of existence however.) I even resisted the primal urge to roll my eyes when she mentioned that women often say the picture looks like the moon. Hmmm, Artemis be still. You will be happy to know that my boobs are "the kind a technician dreams about". That is in fact what the lady said to me. Wow, I am so proud.
So ended this mammogram date. I felt so glad to be done with that breast ordeal that I was euphoric, my boobies like Thelma and Louise...free of responsibility and with a new sense of fearlessness.
(Issues should be pronounced eschewing the "sh" sound and replacing it with a double consonant sound of "sz"),(Should also be modulated well up into the upper registers of the vox with a vocal finish that creates a timbre imitating an enchanted singing whoopie-cushion.)(All the above notes on pronunciation actually lend the word "issues" a total of 3 syllables as follows: IS-su-es with the emphasis on the first.)
Where was I? Oh... big issues. Yes I have been "blessed" with big "issues". (I am employing the use of what is called a euphemism here to stand in the place of more seedy terms as used in the in less literary blogs. Ahem.) They have been bouncing, jutting, high beaming, diving towards down, and generally making a spectacle of themselves since 4th grade. Far from being treated like the Goddess incarnate endowed with pendulage to set worshipers at the priestess' feet, I was instead treated to teasing and grabbing by boys, and vicious whispers by girls.I spent my junior high years with my arms crossed all the time, even while walking. (Not as easy as it sounds. Apparently arms are used for balance.) Fun bags indeed.
Needless to say when I arrived at the "Breast Center" I tried to avoid using the word "breast". I didn't feel at all nice mannered when the valet (man style) used the word with abandon. And, when he asked me if I was to visit the Breast Center for a mammogram, I could swear I saw him raise an eyebrow with loutish pride at his license to say "breast" to a woman and not get slapped hard across the face. Inside the Centre' d' Buube I felt as if all the people around me were watching with a mocking my "bigguns" with a cruel knowledge. Well.. it is a mammogram center after all. Because allthe female types at the center were there for the same reason I found I had to avert my eyes from all. I felt like we were all just big mammary glands wearing dresses and moderatly stylish hair-dos. (Not an all inclusive list)
Now in case you didn't know it's important to understand that I am self conscious, and the idea of my"objects of attention" being brought out for perusal by just anyone, just sounds severely un-good. Not at all appealing. Not in the slightest. Not kidding. And, the certitude that they (according to consensus) will be squashed to within moments of high pressure bursting...sort of makes me angry in a nauseous way. Why aren't all these women giggling nervously or pacing? My thought patterns go manically like this: They all seem so relaxed. I refuse to accept that I am actually going through with this procedure. (fingers in ears) La la la la la. I will pretend that I am okay with naked dancing and hot tubbing and nudist retreats. No, no that feels like too much. I switch to Buddhist consciousness techniques attain a connection with the "present" so intense, that I acquire a spontaneous diagnosis of Autism as a backlash. Suddenly I realize that it is my turn and I began the strut of the doomed to the disrobing area.
Everything in the Palais Breast is designed to put us womenfolk at our ease. The architecture-the rugs-the art-the comfy terry cloth robe. It almost seemed as if I were being manipulated into a state of calm! Next I am in the second waiting area where those closest to the Mashing Mammogram Machine ride awaited our turns. We all sat serenely in our white robes furtively stealing glances at each other's chest regions and wondering-about-whatever-it-is we-were-wondering-about-but-probably-about-the same-thing...boobs. Yep. We got 'em, we wanna keep 'em. I became slightly queezy from the meditation video playing on the big screen plasma monster on the wall. AAAAaaaaand I'm up to bat. (To note: I never use sports terminology unless under great threat.) Into the room, off with the robe, and onto the slab went the girls! One at a time please! Please no pushing: queue up! Okay now....I had no idea the nurse would be moving my boobula around on the plastic plate like a baker with a bread dough. Ugh. I felt as if I had my ta-ta in a giant play-do pressing machine.
However, it didn't hurt at all, phew.
This is when I started to play my role for all it was worth. Note: at that instant I was in the psychological place where in an uncomfortable situation I "become" the individual who isn't scared like me. I even started talking to the technician as if my "melons" were not even attached to me. I spoke about them clinically, looked at the digital photographs, didn't even wince when she pointed out my nipple in the picture. (Silent screaming could be heard on all 7 relative planes of existence however.) I even resisted the primal urge to roll my eyes when she mentioned that women often say the picture looks like the moon. Hmmm, Artemis be still. You will be happy to know that my boobs are "the kind a technician dreams about". That is in fact what the lady said to me. Wow, I am so proud.
So ended this mammogram date. I felt so glad to be done with that breast ordeal that I was euphoric, my boobies like Thelma and Louise...free of responsibility and with a new sense of fearlessness.
