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It does not inspire confidence in the medical system that the best gown they can devise for you to wear when you go in for your mammogram has three arm holes. It takes me several minutes to figure out how it's supposed to go on. The last thing I need is a wardrobe malfunction in the waiting room in front of everyone. I sit down on the hard plastic chair and rummage through the magazines on the side table. There is a three month old copy of People, a nine month old fly fishing magazine and a booklet with daily Bible readings. I should look for divine inspiration but head for the scandal in People instead. I can truthfully say I never buy magazines like that, but I don't see the need to add that I'll read them whenever I get the chance. Of course, it never fails that they call my name just as I'm getting to the good bit about the latest Kardashian gossip. Sighing, I drop the magazine and follow the radiology tech into the room. She's very pleasant and chatty, but it's hard to respond politely when you're half naked, trying to hold your breath on command while a boob is being squeezed in a freezing cold vise. My social skills only extend to a clenched teeth grin. I exhale with relief as she releases me and resume battle with the three arm holes so that I can decently return to the waiting room. Of course, someone else is now reading my copy of People, so I'll never know what happened in the Kardashian universe. After ten minutes, I am almost desperate enough to resort to fly fishing, but hear my name being called. The chatty tech beams in my direction and tells me that the radiologist has given the all clear. I jump to my feet, remembering just in time to clutch the gown before I flash the room, though giddy with relief, I really don't care. I dart into the changing room, divest myself of the three arm hole monstrosity with the skill of a stripper, fling on my clothes and walk on air down the corridor to the exit.