But apparently, my breasts are normal. At least according to the doc that read my smash and scan today. And they don’t want to see me again until I’m 40. (7 years and 10 days from today, if you’re counting.)
It was corporate smash day today, so I got to share the event with my female coworkers. You know, a real bonding experience. The good people from the imaging center picked us up and drove us down there. They served fruit and cheeses while we waited, and then provided massages after the smash and scan before shuttling us back to work. And really, the smash and scan wasn’t nearly as bad as I was afraid. It wasn’t a big deal, honestly. If you’re scared, don’t be.
We were talking about massage on the way back to the office, and I mentioned that hubby needs to get his hands worked over fairly regularly due to his line of work.
Driver nurse: So what does your husband do?
Me: Leather work. Holsters mostly.
Driver nurse: Does he sell to a lot of police and that sort of thing?
Me: Some. He mostly sells to conceal carry permit holders.
Coworker in front seat: It’s surprising how many people have their permits now.
Me: Quite a few people do.
Coworker in front seat: It’s scary.
Driver nurse: I’ve got mine. My husband has his too.
Me: Me too. See me where it isn’t prohibited, and I’m likely carrying.
Silence from the coworker in the front seat.
It wasn’t a freaked out silence either. More contemplative. Like the idea of regular people carrying just became a little more real and a little more normal. And that’s how we win.
*They’re really not. Any evidence to the contrary is an illusion. And the engineering of underthings.