Today’s lesson: mammograms aren’t that bad. And they can save your life. Come on, girls, and make sure you schedule yours if you are as old as I am. (I am 41, for those of you in some confusion between my psychological age of 8, my age-appearance of 75, and my responsible adult persona. Not to mention the fact that I often feel like I’m about 102, particularly after working out as I attempt to crawl up the stairs to die in my bed.)

All I knew beforehand was that my boobs were going to be squished. That much was true. However, they were squished for something like a minute each. The amount of discomfort involved was significantly less than ear piercing, far briefer than a headache, and overall less trouble than parking my car near Kaiser for the appointment. The technician who orchestrated the whole thing was brisk, efficient, and funny, in addition to being informative. She showed me the x-rays at the end and explained which parts were fatty and which were fibrous: by the time I’m 80, the breasts should be pretty much entirely fatty. Some poor soul will have to look over the x-rays with a magnifying glass looking for abnormalities. If everything is okay, the technician said, I’ll get a postcard in about two weeks saying that I do have two breasts and they’re still attached. That would be a Good Thing; I don’t want a bunch of loose boobs running around or lurking in corners deteriorating into little fatty lumps.

I’m not counting the days until I get to go have another one, but I wanted to spread the word that it’s Not Bad. Go take care of yourselves, ladies, and gently remind the ladies to do so, gentlemen.