TA DA!!! Check off the TATA’S from my To Do list.
They have been mammogramed. One more little test to go and I’ll be certified as healthy for 2008. Never mind I’ve procrastinated so long that I’ve run out of 2008 and have no healthy laurels to rest on before I have to start over again.
This was my first digital mammogram. My friend Cray had told me they’d read them on the spot and let me know, but they didn’t. Hers must have been more interesting reading than mine. Yes, there is always the nagging worry until I receive the results, but I was nonetheless grateful I didn’t have to return to the dressing room to wait for them to be developed. I always follow their instructions and don’t wear antiperspirant on mammogram day, but keep me waiting too long in that little cubby and there’s a danger of flop sweat.
Little jokes and signs were taped to the machine to in a vain attempt to distract women from realizing they were tethered by a tit, like: Go braless. . . it pulls the wrinkles out of your face. As the technician panini-ed my breasts, I commented this might be the only time that sagging breasts were a plus. She said she’d encountered some women that by the time she got their breasts in place and properly secured between the smasher, the plates were clamped so tightly together that she couldn’t pull her fingers out. I pictured those women being able to breastfeed their babies through the crib slats.
I always say I’m not one for plastic surgery, but a little prescriptive lift would be delightful. (I can just imagine it. . . drifting off to sleep with a CD of Josh Groban singing, “You Lift Me Up” for mood music, then going home, knockers up, for a ceremonial bra burning. )
I don’t have the nerve to “let the girls out” (as my friend Nomad says) in public but I can easily unhook and pull a bra out of my sleeve with one hand on the trip home. Otherwise, the bra comes off as soon as I walk in the house. When the upholsterer came this morning to pick up our sofas to be be re-covered, I had a moment of panic when he removed the cushions and ran his hand down the sides and back. I was afraid that he’d come up with a bra or two.
It isn’t just bras that I consider to be a scourge of womanhood. Perhaps even worse are the dreaded pantyhose. Most of mine show signs of a fight, holes where my fingers have poked through in the death struggle to get them on. I was thrilled to read that Michelle Obama doesn’t like to wear them either. I wouldn’t be buying stock in hosiery mills.
Last week I put on a pair with a skirt to wear to my eye doctor appointment. I had barely won the pull-’em-up round when I realized they had not surrendered. Instead, they began a creepy descent back down my torso. I tried to reassure myself that they had to make their way over some pretty hefty buttocks first, but at the rate they were crawling, they might just make their escape. Before I could change to my usual uniform– elastic waistband pants and socks– Dearly Beloved commented on my attire, suggesting that I looked so nice he wanted to take me to lunch.
Couldn’t deprive the man of that pleasure, so we arranged a meeting spot. In an attempt to address the creepy-crawlies, I safety pinned the pantyhose to my underwear in north, south, east, and west positions, then headed out, confident that the wardrobe malfunction had been addressed.
When I got out of the car at the doctor’s office, my underpants betrayed me and joined my pantyhose on their roll–a sausage somewhere between naval and pubic bone by the time I entered the lobby. My steps got smaller and smaller, my knees closer and closer together as I minced along, looking for a bathroom. I started to penguin walk, sinking lower, hoping to could catch them before they hit my knees. I couldn’t reach inside my skirt to make adjustment because I’d worn another unmentionable. . . a slip.
This was the one time ever the doctor was ready for me immediately so there was no time for a bathroom rearrange. His assistant took me into an examining room and went through the usual roll call of my prescriptions, completed the “cover your eye” cursory exam, then left me to wait for the doctor.
As soon as the door closed I tugged the offenders up just south of my boobs and had there been time, I’d probably have attempted to pin them to my bra. At least I was able to concentrate on the eye exam. I made my annual suggestion to the doctor that my eyesight might improve greatly if he’d just recommend to my insurance company that my eyelids needed a little nip and tuck. He disagreed. Can’t I get ANYTHING lifted?!
Afterwards, during lunch with Dearly Beloved, I ate with one hand clutching at my stomach, trying to hold onto a fistful of tights and underpants to hinder their southward migration. As soon as I returned home, the traitorous undergarments were removed and dumped in the trash.
Mammogram. . . check. Eyes. . . check. Physical. . . check. And that final test?
The dreaded hemoccult. . . you know, the one where for three days you smear poo with a popsicle stick onto a card, then mail it in. Who’d you rather be on that one. . . the pooper, the mail carrier, or the tester?
Now it’s the last day on the hemoccult test, the last day of 2008. Come on, 2009. . . may the good times, not the pantyhose, roll!