I’m here with ice packs on my chest after being assaulted during my annual mammogram by a woman the size of a tank.
Charisa was her name and I thought she’d kill me.
“I’m not one to take unnecessa’ feelms’ , so I need to get it just right,” she said, after practically removing my left boob like a vacuum cleaner attachment.
“Well, I can appreciate that,” I tell her, “but you are hurting me.”
“Oh, don’t you go bein’ so dramatic. Try bein’ a big girl.”
If she wasn’t the width of Texas I”d have slapped her.
“You’re vera skinny, so it’s hod’ to get a good pa-sition,” she said, smiling.
See, there it was, my thinness behind her cheery brutality. Like it’s my fault she weighs a ton, but I’ve been here before. Fat people hate me, it’s just the way it is, and my chest in all its innocence was paying for it.
When she finally got me where she wanted me, my collarbone about to snap, I notice the picture on the far wall.
“Is that the Titanic?” I ask, hoping to be wrong.
“Wha’ yes it is,” she says, as my boob got a breather.
“That’s not very comforting.”
“Well, what would you’d ratha’ see up there?”
“I don’t know, daisies, cats, but certainly not a boat that sunk.”
“Oh there you go again, bein’ dramatic. Have you ever thought about goin’ on the stage?”
I’m counting down from 100 so I don’t choke her with my bubblegum pink gown now tied around my waist like a life jacket.
Finally she’s done.
“Ya know Charisa, I think you need to practice a bit more. Haven’t you ever heard of the breaststroke?” I said, my attempt at humor, despite being doubled over.