I was having a lovely time at my mammography yesterday. I was in a great mood, having crossed about 765,743 things off my to-do list that day. I was flying.
The radiology technician was really friendly and answered all my goofy questions like, how do women with implants have mammograms. (answer: they take 6 rather than 4 x-rays, so they don't have to flatten the breast down to the thickness of a slice of toast) She even thanked me for "brightening up" her day by making her laugh so much. I figured we were besty friends.
And then she led me back to the little room where my clothes were and told me not to put my shirt back on and she would be back in about 5 minutes. I wasn't concerned when she didn't return in five minutes as everybody says they will be back in five minutes, don't they? And nobody ever is.
After 10 minutes, I was starting to think that I was going to get called back for an additional x-ray, like I did last year.
After 15 minutes I was starting to get a little worried; what if the radiologist had found some enormous mass on my x-ray and was trying to work up the nerve to tell me.
I drifted off to sleep after about 20 minutes, because it was starting to get really stuffy and hot in my little confessional booth, despite my wearing only a paper shirt that didn't close all the way.
After 25 minutes, I had enough. I was starting to suspect that my new best friend had forgotten about me. D'uh, I catch on quickly, don't I?
So I burst out of the changing room, still clad in paper, stomped around a bit till I found another radiology technician and asked if I could go. She checked my name and assured me that I could. I couldn't very well yell at her because it wasn't her fault, but as a sign of my extreme displeasure, I left my lovely paper shirt in a crumpled pile on the floor.
Ha! Take that, you fair-weather besty friend, you!