I had my first mammogram this morning.   And while they are routine and inconsequential, it had a sobering effect on me.

First the paperwork:  “Age of first full term pregnancy:  18”.  “Last date of breastfeeding:  6/2002.”   I’m not going for a mammogram because I’m sick, or anyone is worried.  I’m going because that’s what you do when you reach a Certain Age.   I sat there, looking incredulously at those dates, amazed.  There were a series of years there where I had spent five New Year’s Eves either pregnant or breastfeeding.   But now, it’s been ten years since I held a baby to my breast.  It hardly seems possible.

I mean, I know I’m getting older.  Even though I am fighting it kicking and screaming with all the running and the face creams and the dental floss and the green and purple foods five times a day, it’s still happening.   Whenever anyone asks, I always proudly say I’m 41, that I’ve fought hard for each and every year I have.  And that’s true.  I never lie about my age (with a 22 year old kid, it’s kind of hard to go much younger).  I think I’m doing pretty well for early 40s.

Still, the boob squishing is just a gentle reminder that time is marching on.  And in the immortal words of Truvy from Steel Magnolias, “Honey, time marches on, and eventually you realize it is marching right across your face.”


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