Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid. Actually, it’s quite the opposite: a woman having large breasts makes men stupid. – Rita Rudner
I had the girls smooshed this morning. You know, mammogram. Not a pleasant experience, particularly when your girls are as large as mine. But important to do. Preventative maintenance, ya know?
During the smooshing, the tech, named Beth, was quite chatty. I usually dislike this. Just smoosh my girly bits, take some photos and let me be on my way. Not so today. I was chatty today. I felt good. It is Christmas Eve. I am looking forward to my first christmas with my fiance and sons in our new home. I am looking forward to giving and receiving and being with ones I love. So I chatted with Beth.
Blah blah, she carries on as she twists my left girl this way or that, mashes it into the vice of a machine and I attempt to respond to her chatter as I stand naked and gasping for air as the machine compresses my left breast.
“How many children do you have? How old are they?” Beth asks.
For a split second, but a flash in time, I ponder responding this way or that.
“Three” I respond.
“Oh, what are their ages?” Beth asks as she takes my left breast and arranges more of the flesh on the plate.
Good golly. Must I really discuss this, be triggered by adoption while I stand bare-chested in a dark room with a woman as she turns my girls into mashed potatoes?
“24, 12 and 7” I respond.
“Wow, big age range..” Beth says as she moves my armpit closer to the table and jams the corner of the machine into my right eyeball. “Ooh, sorry about that. Bad design”
“So what did your kids ask from Santa? I bet the 24-year-old wants money. Thats all my 24-year-old wants”
Beth walks back to take the picture and I remain silent. I have no idea what my 24-year-old wants.
“Does your 24 yo live at home? Mine lives in Wallingford but recently asked to move back home. I told him no. It’s for his own good, you know? I am not trying to be mean…” Beth rambles. Machine clicks away.
I am still silent. I am responding but only I hear the sound. The conversation is in my head.
No Beth, my 24-year-old doesn’t live at home. In fact she hasn’t since she was three days old. I have no fricking clue if she wants money. As far as I know she wants nothing from me. Nothing at all. So I donate to charities in her name. And yeah, Beth, if my 24-year-old wanted to come home I would get in my car right now, bare-chested, mammaries bouncing free and fly to pick her up. I would be so distracted by the thought of having my child home at Christmas I would forget to put my shirt on Beth. You don’t know what a gift it is that your 24 yo wants to come home….
Of course I don’t say that. I just think it. A tear forms in my eye and rolls down my cheek.
“Oh, I am sorry, did I pinch you too hard? Did I hurt you? I am sorry. I just want to get a good picture.” Beth says.
“No, its okay.I am fine.” I respond as I wipe the tear from my face.
“Okay. Well we are done here. The doctor will call you. We used to read them here but they don’t anymore. It done in Farmington. But from my quick review I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Your “girls” are fine. ” chuckles Beth as directs me back to the changing room.
Are my girls fine Beth? Really? Which girls are you referring to Beth?
“Merry Christmas. Remember, give the 24 yo money and don’t let them move home. And don’t worry about the girls” she says as she walks away.
I will always worry about at least one girl Beth. And she is not on my chest but in my heart.
I drive my sore boobs and equally aching heart home.