October is soon to be inaugurated the month for sickeningly shameful court sentences, but since I’ve already written about the absurdity of all that, since I’ve already felt sick to my stomach reading ridiculous judgements  and since it seems that society is finally making its voice heard about this, I shall not go on about it. For once in my life, I will let ‘it’ go and concentrate on the more important topic of healthy perky breasts.

Given that I’ve already posed nude for charity, and given that according to a few I should be regretting this decision for the rest of my life, I thought it wise to continue over-sharing my private bits by letting you in on my very intimate encounter with a mammogram machine.

Last week I interviewed one of the experts in the field and he convinced me to stop putting it off and to get myself checked.  Though I was re-assured that it wouldn’t hurt, knowing my low pain threshold and what a wuss I can be in all things physical, I was on high alert.  

To make matters worse, because of my disorganized life, my appointment clashed with that particular time of the month when even a sheer look at the twins could prove painful.

With my menses as an excuse, when the day came along I considered cancelling, but because I owed it to a friend to see this through, I didn’t.

I turned up and with a brave face, made it all the way to the room where they keep all the big scary machinery, listened to the nurse’s instructions with the attention of a pilot landing on a two meter-wide strip, and proceeded to undress.

Finally, I was introduced to a huge, white piece of machinery which had more protruding nuts and bolts than a PN press release.  It also had wires sticking out of everywhere and, a small cold plate waiting to be served fresh human breast.

“So it’s you,” I whispered under my breath. “You’re the ugly big thing that can save my life. Finally we get to meet.”

Then, before the machine even had a chance to answer, a whole song and dance started to unfold.  The incredibly patient and knowledgeable nurse started to manoeuvre what is probably the smallest human breast on the face of the earth. She pulled and jerked, she pushed and swayed. She yanked and forced and, miraculously, somehow got it to fit where she wanted it to fit.

Finally she let it go, ran behind a perspex screen across the room, pushed a button, and ran back, all the way apologizing for not running any faster.

Like ballroom dancers we repeated all the elbowing, ramming, jolting, pulling and pushing, four times, twice for each breast, and every time, it just became funnier and funnier.

Honestly, despite the plate’s shape being completely incompatible to a woman’s breast, despite all the thrusting and towing, and despite all the running and stretching, the procedure was not in the least painful; it wasn’t even awkward. All it was really, was terribly terribly funny, and only a little bit uncomfortable because not giggling is kind of essential for a good mammogram reading.   

Ellen Degeners once said that “if a man had to put his special parts inside a clamp to test him for anything…they would come up with a new plan…” and up until yesterday I fully agreed with her, but when you compare a mammogram to how a prostate exam goes down, I can now safely say that a mammogram, performed by someone who knows what they’re doing, does not even come close to that level of discomfort and awkwardness.

So ladies, no matter how busy you are this month, no matter what excuse you’ve conjured up over the years not to get yourself checked, just get it done.

Considering that it can truly save your life, the whole procedure is almost too nice and easy.

If you’re still thinking about it, check out the myths we’ve all grown to believe and how they can kill you, and then make that appointment and keep it.