I just sat in the parking lot at 7:56 a.m. thinking to myself that I could just go home or to Hobby Lobby and avoid this entire thing. As I sat there in the 93 degree heat, my White Chocolate Mocha in one hand and my Honey Butter Chicken Biscuit in the other, leaning my face directly into the air conditioner vent, it occurred to me that I was not 22 anymore. Or 32. Or 42. 7:57 a.m.
My thoughts were racing. This is going to hurt. Did I bring the ibuprofen? Do I need my cell phone during a mammogram? Yes. If the electricity goes out while I am vised in there I want to be able to call the electric company or 911 or check for a hobby lobby coupon or call Cowboy and blame it on him. I can’t even remember how old I am. Oh no, I’m having memory issues. I might hyperventilate. It’s because I am traumatized. How come Cowboy isn’t here to comfort me? He’d be more compassionate if he had to do this. If he had to show up every year and put his extenuating circumstances in a motorized plastic vice, he’d have his hat in his hand instead of running off to work like a little girl. He could have gotten me a gift. But not even a card. Oh.. Look at that adorable purse… I bet her husband bought that for her on her mamoday. 7:58
I opened the door to the Bazinga-mobile ( newly named) and stepped out into the sweltering morning. Dusting the remnants of my HBCB off of my chest and checking 3 times to make sure I didn’t lock my keys in the car and that I didn’t have chicken in my teeth, I headed toward the door of the Cave of Suffering and Udder Devastation. There is no theme music, no pomp and no parade. Just me willingly moving toward the crushing jaws that only hungers for my dignity. 8 : 02 am
I call Cowboy to see if God has convicted him of his compassionless jaunt out the door without so much as a gift certificate for a pedi but he doesn’t answer. Coward.
” Mrs. Metcalf.” I hear a sweet voice say.
I muster up a fake grin and crack a joke as she leads me to the pinkest room I have ever seen and there it is; the pride eating pachyderm of a machine waiting to crush the life out of me.
RUN, my body says. But that voice inside my head is my sisters, reminding me that I have to do this. My sister is a breast cancer survivor and never ever lets me forget how important this is. She would have gotten me a gift certificate if she wasn’t all the way in Alabama. Just saying.
8:26 a.m. I am topless, exposed and discussing with this total stranger what it’s like to raise an alpaca and how much fun it is to have a flock of geese around while she is pushing and pulling and gripping and vising and smashing. She’s good. She has me distracted by camaraderie and estrogen bonding and for a split second I forget what she is about to do to me and I come to my senses 12 seconds to late. The second she has me pinned in there and I cannot get away .. She runs. Literally leaps across the room to her Bird of Prey/Death Star control panel and utters the most ridiculous statement. ” Hold your breath Honey”
8:27 a.m. I cry out to God for deliverance as she tells me to hold my breath in this sing song voice. This voice that says I have done this before and we can make this as hard or as easy as you want it to go. Of course I am holding my breath. What else does one do in this circumstance? Break dance? Make Muffins? Plan a trip to the Islands? Break into a version of I love New York?
8:36 a.m. It’s over. But our relationship has changed. Me and this TaTa technician have an unspoken understanding. She could have killed me if she wanted to. She had all this power and chose not to use it. And because of that I have chosen not to remove her hair from her head. We part with few words and she moves on to the next victim, with no hesitation or pause and I ease my sore swollen bosom back to the car that I started in.
8:47 As I sit in the Bazinga Mobile silently praying and contemplating my emotional and physical healing, something in the pocket of my purse glistens and catches my eye. It is at that moment I realize I have Cowboys Credit card.
A grin passes over my face. God has provided comfort for me in the form of Retail Therapy. I’m going to make it. I’m going to be ok… Thank you Lord.