Middle aged also means mammogram aged. I've known this
abstractly for over 11 months, though it only rose to the forefront of my mind
when being told to make my first appointment last week. (I was also told by my gynecologist
that I'd be "dried-up" soon enough, thanks to menopause. Good grief.
I do like a blunt doctor, and still think fondly of the time my general
practitioner asked if I wanted kids and when I said no, responded "Oh,
thank god.") I'm not in any hurry; breast cancer doesn't run in my family,
and "Our Feel-Good War on Breast Cancer," which I just read recently
(it's old news now from NYT April) after seeing it mentioned on Facebook, isn't
really a motivator either.
Anyway, it's too hot to type. I nearly sweated to death on July 4th on a Maryland mission to find crabs done properly and had a cheesesteak nightcap in Philadelphia on the drive home, so Friday I retreated to the dark, cool safety of the aquaduct "racino," yesterday I didn't even leave the house (and still haven't 2:30pm on Sunday) though I made my plan to group view Ghost Dad high a reality. Tonight I'm stepping outside and walking down the street to see Frances Ha and drink (can't believe it took NYC so long to figure out the movie theater serving food and drink thing) which could be a horrible or genuis ending to a lazy four-day weekend. I'll have to see.