I stoically made the march down to the midtown medical building to have my annual mammogram.

Yesterday was a clear, beautiful fall day. The walk seemed fast…I wanted it to last forever.

I entered the brightly lit, white walled reception area and was greeted by the lovely lady who has been handling the meet and greet for the past five years.

We traded medical cards and boob charts…the waiting game began.

Thirteen minutes after my confirmed appointment time my name was called by the same delightful woman who always feels me up. I prefer being intimate with a known entity.

I stripped from the waist up and wrapped the Frette robe around my sweaty body. At least in Manhattan they provide robes that not only fit, but also have a high thread count.

I waited again for role call with five other over fifty women who all showed signs of no undergarment support…no one looked happy or willing to engage in small talk. When I am nervous I crave a little verbal repartee.

My flaxen-haired breast handler escorted me into the mammory pressurized zone. I am constantly amazed that my breasts can be flattened into such an unnatural shape. I grabbed the bar to balance, grit my teeth and smiled for the camera.

Left side next.

She asked me to wait and I wanted to know if I should prep for the porno film. Why else would someone stand half naked under bright lights?  I think I scared her because she asked me to have a seat in the execution chamber…the waiting room.

The number of breasts quadrupled and the room was tense. The estrogren laced environment was predominantly focused on a stain on the beige carpeting.

A seventy-something woman was solemnly beckoned to the door by the grim reaper…same reaper the last five years. Black curly hair, extreme nose job and severe tone.

The woman followed the reaper and reappeared moments later, relieved but shaken. I asked if she was ok and she said that she hadn’t experienced that tone of voice since she was summoned to the principal’s office in middle school. The grim reaper needs to work on vocal warmth.

I naturally needed more photos because the radiologist seems to love looking at multiple shots of my breasts. I am ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Again, back to the waiting area where I found a professor who was willing to engage in nervous chatter.

Fifteen minutes crawled by and my blond angel reappeared. Damn, more photos. My breasts were turning into mashed potatoes.

I had related my grim reaper analogy and she came a calling so that I would not be nervous. She delivered my results in an upbeat manner.

Yahoo, another year of healthy breasts. The girls have not let me down…literally and figuratively.

Don’t forget to have an annual mammorgram no matter how reluctant you may be and bravo to all the strong women who have beaten breast cancer.

You go, girls!