Pancakes, No. More like Tortillas.

Warning: This post contains information about parts of me (two, actually) that may be best left unimagined especially if the reader is, let's say, my son, or potentially, any other dude that may not want to go there.

So, I am standing in my skirt, heels and hospital gown with the opening in the front. As directed.

The lady is looking me over. Head to toe, yes. With a practiced eye. Would you like to show me your breast size? she is saying.

I want to jump and down and say Sure! Heck, yes! I would be most delighted to bare my breasts for you! because the question is just that stupid. But instead I say, probably too jovially because I'm getting the jitters about this lady assessing my breast size and whatnot, Certainly.

I am flashing the lady. She does not contain her look of surprise very well. Oh, she is saying, I need to change out the machine to the small size.

Did she really just say that?

Ah, the joys of the mammogram.

Note: If you're due for one, ladies, go get it!

Trophy Wives take care of themselves. Heck, yes!