So, last week was the time for my yearly check-up. I have a great Dr. who is thorough and has a great sense of humour, thankfully! Of course, being so thorough, I had to have my yearly pap smear. I have no problem with that, and let's face it girls, at my age, I just don't have any hang-ups about who looks down there. Send in the janitor, who cares. But I don't like awkward silences while the Dr.'s doing it, so I tend to talk a lot throughout. As if I'm the host of some crazy party in my uterus and I must carry the conversation or the Dr. won't come next year. I usually joke around about Amelia Earhart or Jimmy Hoffa falling out or something equally droll like that. The Dr. doesn't laugh so I start thinking it's because I didn't offer him a drink. Anyway, this year he mentioned that my curvex was quite far up and it took him a minute to find it. I asked him what colour it was. Just curious. He said it was hot pink! Wow, I didn't know!
After I was done, on the way home, I tried to tell my husband that I needed a pink purse and shoes to match my curvex. Now that I knew for certain the colour of my curvex, I just couldn't go through life with the big faux pas of not having a matching handbag. Why don't men get it????
My Dr. then made an appointment for a mammogram. I have very small breasts, and it turns out that if they aren't big enough, the technician simply grabs them with both hands and swings off of them until they are big enough! She just pulls and pulls until finally the fat from your back surrenders and moves to the front. Once satisfied with that, she closes your breasts in this machine that squishes them flat. Ouch! If all photos required this kind of exercise, none of us would ever know what our ancestors looked like.