Depeche Mode & Mammograms

I kissed a boy so hard it melted my face off on April 30th, 1990.

We were in the front seat of his parked in his car at a grocery store in Palatine, IL. It was a warm, muggy afternoon. The new Depeche Mode album was playing in the background. We kissed so hard and so long that we never heard any of the songs.

Even though it was twenty-five years ago, I remember being clammy and clumsy. I remember how he smelled. I remember sweetly kissing his shoulder and tasting lavender laundry detergent on my tongue. And, of course, I remember the moment where my eyes rolled backwards and I saw stars.

Oh, yes. Sweet youth. Filled with firsts.

It’s not like I don’t live a fun and exciting life; however, today’s first-time experiences are a little less climactic if you know what I mean.

For example, today is April 30th, 2015, and I’m getting my first mammogram.

Wait. Stop.

I cannot even proceed with this blog post and pretend that getting a mammogram is anything other than a rote and unimportant middle-aged milestone.

Mammograms save lives, but in no way is adulthood better than making out with a boy while listening to the Violator album. There was a time in my life when I vaulted myself into the blissful arms of a gawky, teenage boy. I twisted myself like a pretzel in the front seat of a shitty car and felt my heartbeat in my ears. I had a “come to Jesus moment” while suburban moms shopped for bagged salad and potato chips.

Now I write blog posts about work, life and cats. I own a small consulting firm. And I proactively take care of my breast health.

Jesus.

Kids, this is a warning to you: adulthood fucking sucks! Go have fun. Go make out in parking lots. Listen to ridiculous music—over and over and over—while smooching with boys.

But, yeah, okay, fine. Get a mammogram when you turn 40. That’s important.