Throwing That Garage Door Wide Open

"Don't worry," said Jackie. "If we happen to lose power during the procedure, the machine will release itself."

Of all the things, I may have been concerned about prior to my first mammogram--dull pain, crushing pain, stabbing pain-- being stuck in the imaging machine, in total darkness wasn't even on the radar.

"Yeah, that's happened to me before," she continued. "I asked the patient--are you okay?! And she said yes. That it had released."

Good to know.

I'm forty now. I've officially crossed into the 40-64 age bracket, with all the medical tests that go with it--including the much maligned baseline mammogram. Why does such a life saving procedure get such a bad rap? I was actually kind of curious to find out. So, here I stood, undressed from the waist up, opening in the front, ready for the festivities to begin.

When I booked the appointment, the woman on the other end immediately went into counseling mode. "I'm not scared," I interrupted. "I sort of like living."

Apparently not everyone feels this way. She told me about her neighbor, who refuses to have a mammogram. Sad stuff really. And you can probably place some blame on the analogies that are supposed to lighten the situation, like that slamming garage door bit.

At my appointment, Jackie and I became friends pretty quickly, as she confidently manipulated my breasts into position. And then, because it was the only reference I knew, I waited for the garage door to slam.

And waited.

And waited.

Luckily it never happened.

Indeed there was pressure. How else can you expect to squash breasts into abnormally flat pancakes. (They were. I looked. I don't advise that part.) And naturally, having a body part caught in a vise-like grip for any length of time is little out of the ordinary.

But outright pain? Nope.

Jackie, after piquing my interest by complimenting my pecs and youthful glandular tissue, gave me a look-see at one of the images. And then the party was over as soon as it began. A quick high-five of her latex gloved hand and I was back to my day already in progress.

To me, the test was actually quite satisfying. It provided a small peek inside my body, to prove that what I've been doing to keep myself strong all of these years, might just actually be working.

And for you? Maybe it's time to stop believing everything you hear.

Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part II

"Happy Birthday, Baby."

I'll admit it. This 40th year o' mine has been more than memorable so far. First, rocker and outstandingly beautiful spirit, Lenny Kravitz, peered over his sunglasses, and uttered his coolest of birthday wishes, while signing my VIP Today show pass.

Then we (André and I, not Lenny), checked into the Jersey Shore.

Literally.

As any true Rhode Islander knows, the MTV casting of Johnston's own Pauly D for their reality show was no accident. Indeed, the Shore vibe is alive and well within our borders. But, trust, the sheer number of string bikini, headband wearing, twentysomethings waiting to check into what was clearly THE party hotel of Atlantic City, has never been seen in these parts--not even on the Hill, on a warm Saturday night in the summer.

It was almost enough to give a girl some serious culture shock--if it hadn't been so darn amusing.

Sure, I graduated from URI, where the joke was that New Jersey residents were so numerous, that they should be the ones paying in-state tuition. But I don't remember ever experiencing an over-the-top scene quite like this, where everyone in view, outside of me and the desk clerks, seemed to be working the same hyped up stereotype, that, until that point, I assumed was only for the benefit of the cameras on tv.

I was so wrong.  

Thankfully, I was wearing my straw fedora. It was really the only thing I had going to nudge my appearance a bit closer to respectably hip, and a bit further away from the 'house-mother-reporting-to-govern-the-frat-house' reality of the scene. And André, naturally, didn't make things much better once he arrived in the lobby with our bags.

"I feel like someone's dad coming in to chaperone the party," he said. Thanks. Alot.

But, lucky for us, things were not as they appeared.

At 11pm, we came back to the room, not to retire, but to change shoes on our way back out for a bit of salsa dancing. That once happenin' party on our hall? (The same one that earlier had me testing out the air conditioner to make sure that the white noise of the fan, combined with my ear plugs, would muffle the festivities enough to ensure a good night's sleep.) It was in total meltdown mode, with some dude crying about the demise of friendships and threatening to catch the bus home.

Wow. I do believe that we just punked off youth.

Again.

Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part I

Now hear this. Forty is NOT the new twenty.

It was my birthday sign, created by my husband (and resident artist) André that caught the woman's attention in the Today Show plaza.

"Well," she said, giving me a slightly sympathetic look, "Forty is the new twenty."

Um, do I look sad? A bit tired maybe, but I had been up since 2am.

I'm sure that she was trying to be kind, but I sort of felt bad for her. I mean, she was way past forty herself, and instead of saying, 'Amen girlfriend. It only gets better from here', she went the backhanded compliment route--along the same lines of telling the bride that rain on her wedding day means good luck.

The facts: I turned twenty on September 2, 1991.

That was literally half a lifetime ago. And I don't want to go back.

At twenty, I was a junior at the University of Rhode Island, living with my cousin Lynne in a beach cottage literally a block from the ocean and partying on weekends with my friend, the dollar Rolling Rock.

And life was hard. Seriously.

When I was twenty, I was trying to figure out who I was, what I stood for and who I wanted to be in this world, all while listening to, or opting not to, those voices of judgment that always think you're going about things all wrong. I was working to feel completely comfortable in my own skin. To recognize that I do know best, even though sometimes it's a lonely place to stand.

The truth is, if I were twenty, I wouldn't have even been here, in New York City, literally feet (and sometimes inches) away from rocker Lenny Kravitz, getting a birthday hug from Ann Curry, talking to Matt Lauer about Wes' Rib House or being interviewed on air by Al Roker, with these beautiful birthday signs, in the first place.

When I was twenty, I didn't talk to strangers. What good ever comes of that? You know who you know. Who else do you need to know?

When I was twenty, I would have never, ever butted into a conversation about H&M inside a bar overlooking Times Square, while André went to refill our drinks. (In fact, when I was twenty, I probably wouldn't have even been sitting alone in the first place.) When I was twenty, I would have never chatted up my New Orleans girl, fellow Virgo and kindred music spirit Kristine, who graciously invited André and I to come along on this most fabulous birthday adventure ever, after assessing our character over a couple of cosmos the year before.

Indeed. Forty is not the new twenty.

And please, please, please, don't tell me otherwise.