SlamIt! BamIt! Man-0-Gram It!

I remembered late today that I scheduled a mammogram for tomorrow morning. Early tomorrow morning. The mammogram itself doesn't worry me. The stories of pain and torture are exaggerated and my modesty scale has already been tipped for this week.

The encounter part of it concerns me. My encounter--as in talk-to-me, touch-me-again-and-I'll-eat-you--intolerance is at warp level. I don't know what I was thinking when I let all this get scheduled in the same week year.

The whole mammogram thing is another one of those gender inequities that puzzle me. If men had to take off everything below the waist, wrap up in a wash cloth that opens in the front and sit with a bunch of similarly garbed men while waiting to have a man-o-gram, this would all be different. Imagine a guy having to belly up to a refrigerator chilled plate where a male technician is waiting to help him lay out his goods so another refrigerator chilled plate can smash them to pancake thinness. And then, because that first go wasn't fun enough, he assists the tech in rearranging his recently smashed package for a shot from another angle. Assuming there are any men left standing, the tech asks him to wait while the films are checked. In case they need to repeat the process.

An idea like this wouldn't even get out of the brainstorming session if men were handling, squishing and filming man parts. We need more women in the medical device design business. When we perfect the Man-O-Gram as a testicular screening event, we women will get a pinpoint accurate breast screening tool that involves turning sideways and coughing discretely while a hunky male doctor (and it'll be good enough if he just plays a doctor on TV) holds a warm, soft finger gently under each boob. Breast cancer will always be caught early, and eventually eradicated, because we'll all be standing in line to have George Clooney do our breast exams.