Forty years old. The one and only thing about turning forty that I wasn’t excited about was the mammogram. I’ve been forty for four and a half months already, I just got around to scheduling the mammogram. That’s good for me – I typically put things off I don’t like much, much longer than a mere four and a half months!

Don’t wear deoderant, they tell me. Well, okay, but I can promise you no one will want to be around me for very long if I can’t wear deoderant. Don’t you people know that I’m Italian??  In that case, I’m told, I can wear it but will need to take it off prior to the exam. No problem.

My appointment was at 1:30pm … and I was in the car by 1:48pm, on my way home. Impressively quick! Now I have no idea what the ‘norm’ is for these mama-gramma-jamma things, but I can tell you that I am the proud owner of breasts larger than your average female (and yes, they are the real deal), so I was dreading the whole pulling/stretching/squishing thing. Good news, ladies. Painless. Absolutely painless.

Being that I’m not one to let a less-than-pleasant situation pass me by without reward, I promptly treated myself to a cookie afterwards. I really should try to learn to reward myself with something other than fattening food. Next time? Perhaps a new dress!

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