The Annual Breast Fest

Had the yearly mammogram; now I can seek counseling for the resulting PTSD.No seriously, it wasn’t that bad, and I did learn something: I learned that the technician’s mother died of cancer and her father  of heart. I got this information by telling her that I wasn’t anticipating a bad result since in my family we all just drop dead, some at home, some at the mall. She wasn’t shocked. You can’t shock the mammogram ladies; they’re just too cool.She learned something too when I asked her why, on the lengthy questionnaire , they ask you your bra size.“Oh that. This doesn’t sound very scientific but it used to be we had two rooms, one for women size 36 B and under and one for those over that size, I don’t know why.” Then she paused a minute. “I know this sounds crazy but I think they’re changing the bra sizes on us . I mean have you ever heard of a 32E?“Have I! it’s because of the really fancy bra stores where you’re supposed to believe the bras are made of placental material from the mothers of Miss America contestants or something. They only HAVE crazy bra sizes. They told me I was a 32 F!”“32 F?!”“And I'm just a regular normal-looking girl, right? It’s  because they want to make them as tight as they can around your rib cage and I have this little narrow rib cage, upholstered as it may be. Their idea: anchor it low and tight in back  and that will raise everything in front sky-high. Think of a person with a pair of ice skate slung over his shoulder, it’s the same principle, the lower the higher, get it?”She got it. Anyway it was a nice human exchange. Even though I waited more than 90 minutes for my big moment under the lights, I left feeling  'seen' and understood and if a little squeezed, mostly just squeezed for time.