Last week I endured my annual nether-region spelunking. My gynecologist has recently moved into a new practice in a brand new building, which by the way is gorgeous and, while the change was nice, I have to admit that I kind of missed the wacky jungle print poster that hung on the ceiling in the examination room of the old building; staring at squares of ceiling tile during said spelunking just wasn’t the same. Anyway, the results came back yesterday and all is right in Hooville.
While the good doctor was mining for treasure in my downstairs business, her PA was making an appointment for my annual mammogram; she made it for today so I guess that means I have to go. I don’t really wanna. In fact, I made a bargain with myself; if Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow (highly likely given the bastard’s track record), then I would skip the exam. So, the damn groundhog came out of his den this morning and, no shadow. OF COURSE and now I am stuck with keeping the appointment.
I think the lesson here is this: Never trust a rodent to determine your health-care plans.
Also, get a mammogram; your boobies will thank you.