I have a mammogram tomorrow, and I'm strangely excited about it. It's not that I don't know what will happen - I had one in my twenties for a suspicious lump that turned out to be nothing. I know there aren't any fun. Also, I am so sure that it is completely useless that even the hypochondriac part of myself isn't worried, since my boobs and I know each other quite well.
Why on earth am I actually looking forward to the boob smashing?
1. I have read so many online articles about the importance of mammograms lately, that I feel responsible by going. I feel like a good adult taking care of my body responsibly. This is the shit I am supposed to do at 40, and I'm supposed to feel an increased sense of self esteem or some other bullshit because I am taking care of myself. And it turns out that I do.
2. After seeing this picture on Facebook, I am secretly convinced that when I get there someone is going to give me cookies. I know they don't just wait for people at the X-ray boob-smasher with plates of these. I do know that, mostly, but just like I hoped for Santa Claus years after I knew he didn't exist (spoiler!) I still secretly think there will be cookies, and not just any cookies, but super awesome cookies. Fuck it, I can dream.
3. I am in good company. Not only did the Blogess blog about her boob smooshing experience, but all my other 40 year old friends are scheduling theirs as well. It's a sense of sisterhood that I haven't felt in years. Here in the United States, we don't have a heck of a lot of stage of life type events. Not many people bake Happy First Period cakes in these here parts. Which is probably a good thing if you have an irritating brother, but a bad thing if you like cake as much as I do. Any excuse for cake is a good one.
Although I know one person who was an actual debutante, most of my friends didn't get that coming of age ritual, either. Mostly, we just age.
(Yes, birthdays, I know, birthdays, but that's still not the same a culture that has ceremonies for blessing women at various stages of life.)
Some people get Croning Ceremonies, we get mammograms. While I may not be exactly close enough to be called a crone, I still feel a sense that I am coming of age. I am 40! Smoosh my Boobs! Sadly, it doesn't have much ring to it.
Let the Boob Squashing begin! Unless, of course the metal is cold. Then fuck that noise.