[If my friend Patrick is reading this, he'll hopefully recognize the sleazy Sir Mix-A-Lot reference.]
Today was Mammogram Day. Wheeeeee! (Yes, that means you all tragically missed Mammogram Eve.) A mammogram is definitely the lesser of two evils; when the other option is breast cancer, it's hard not to be an improvement. Still, it's not what you'd call a pleasant experience.
Essentially, the goal of a mammogram machine is to render a three-dimensional object full of nerve endings into two dimensions, at the coldest temperature possible and at a funny angle to the rest of your body. I know, I know, it's better than cancer; you're absolutely right. But that doesn't mean I was happy about the re-shoots. Maybe next year I'll schedule it for a Friday afternoon and just show up drunk. Yeah, I might start changing into the gown while still in the waiting room, or yell, "My boobs are nuke-ular! Woooooo!" but I don't think I'll mind the cold or the compression anywhere near as much.