Right now I am sitting in a waiting room. No worries. I’m just getting my first mammogram.

I turned 40 in May. Apparently that is when one’s warranty runs out. I am overweight, not sleeping well, grumpy, my body hurts, and I am tired all the time. Oh, and 40 is when ladies who are not at high risk of breast cancer get to start having mammograms.

I keep reminding my husband about the date of the procedure. I told all the ladies at work about it. When I woke up this morning, I reminded my husband that today is the day I have my mammogram.

He said, “I have never seen someone so excited to have a mammogram.”

“I’m not excited, exactly…”

But I kinda am. It’s like I get to join some kind of club for women who are grown ups. It’s like when you have a kid and you’re suddenly in this club of motherhood. One member might say “chafed nipples” and all the other members nod knowingly and empathize. Or the marathon runners club when you can say “I lost another toenail and my sports bra chafed my back” and other lady runners nod and murmur about Body Glide.

It’s something new, so I want to see what it’s like. It’s a diagnostic test and I want to make sure my boobs aren’t trying to kill me (other than the usual ways they try to kill me — boob sweat, having to buy stupid expensive sports bras, having to go to stupid specialty stores to buy stupid expensive daily bras, potential black eyes from running down stairs, chafing). You will notice that chafing is a common theme for me — and women in general. Uuuuugggghhhhhh.

But most of all, my mammogram is a rite of passage.

My daughter and husband and I were having a conversation about her scraping her knee while running. She was complaining and trying to blame her shoes or the ground or something. We explained to her that scraping your knee and getting hurt while exploring and playing is normal. In fact, it’s basically a rite of passage. She thought about it and said “Rites of Passage hurt”

We nodded knowingly and said, “Oh girl, you have no idea. They definitely hurt.”

In some cultures, rites of passage are much more obvious and ceremonial, like… rites. You might get a significant tattoo or body modification or be sent out into the wilderness to survive for a set amount of time or have to stick your hands into straw gloves full of stinging ants (yeah, I watch a lot of documentaries.) Most of us in my neck of the woods don’t have such obvious rites of passage. But we still have them. Subtle things like your first date and your first breakup. The first time you live on your own. Your first job. Your first real job that you have to use to pay actual bills. Graduations. Parenthood. So many more.

Each time you go through a rite, you enter into a new group. You don’t necessarily leave your old group behind. You just get to be part of another group too. You find new things in common with people. And it cements bonds because of shared experiences.

And they usually hurt. In one way or another, a Rite of Passage is difficult and painful. Growing usually is, I guess. But it makes us who we are and who we will become. So I was excited for this rite of passage.

Update:

I wrote the original post in the waiting room, but that was a few weeks ago, so here’s the follow-up…

I am officially one of the ladies who can complain about getting a mammogram and having her boobs squished between plastic plates while getting very cozy with an X-ray machine. While not comfortable, this rite of passage did NOT hurt 😊

So, ladies over 40, go get one. Make sure your boobies aren’t trying to kill you either!