Exotic yet ordinary

I've been having one of those days where I know I should absolutely be doing something other than what I am doing, but can't for the life of me remember what it was. I'm nearly positive it was work related. Though, even if I did manage to remember what it is that is really supposed to be occupying my time, I'd be far too distracted to do anything about it. This is a shame, because I'd honestly like to be doing almost anything else. Anything other than sitting in a festering pool of worry thinking about my mammogram.

I'm having a mammogram tomorrow morning. I think if I say it enough it will somehow dull the fact that I am actually, you know, having a mammogram. In the morning. Now, the doctor didn't appear overly concerned about my lumpy-something and seems to be doing this primarily as a precaution. My friends have all concurred and have assured me that I shouldn't worry, either. It's no. big. deal. But worrying is in my blood (I come from a long line of prolific worriers), so that has definitely been easier said than done.

I'm worried and I'm a little angry. I am angry that I'm going for a diagnostic mammogram at 27. I'm angry that I've allowed myself to ever entertain any of the terrible thoughts I have over the last three weeks. I'm angry at the time I waste. I'm angry that despite recognizing how brief life truly is, I'm not likely to change anytime soon. And I'm angry for bothering with all this worry before receiving a diagnosis or given any indication that I really have something to worry about.

Hopefully, it won't take a ridiculous amount of time for the whole breast-smooshing, film-reading, diagnostic extravaganza. I'm past ready to be told I've been worried for nothing.