SPAMMOGRAM SAMMY

Dear Reader,

I don't think it is accurate to say that most, if not all people experience some sort of mid-life crisis.  Rather we experience three or four in close succession.  I have made no secret that I turned 40 a few months ago, though you'd never know it to look at me.  Just kidding.  Along with turning 40 I ran a half-marathon, lost fifteen pounds and cleaned out my closet in the most major way imaginable.  It is not possible, or at least not reasonable to wear t-shirts with stupid sayings on them after a certain age.  That age should be sixteen, but for me it came a little later.  Nor is there a place in my life for a t-shirt with a rainbow cheetah head on it.  Not anymore.  It's time to take stock and think about what I'm doing with my life.  I would like to contribute something to the world other than snarky recipes, however delicious they might be.  I'm not sure how I might do that, but I do know that I've always wanted to open a sandwich shop.  I know exactly the sandwiches I would serve, and I would offer two salads and one soup each day, I know how the shop would look, and what the kids working behind the counter would wear.  I would call my shop, "Sammy's" or maybe "Sammies."  Perhaps someday I will own that sandwich shop, but today I've got to get a mammogram.

SPAMMOGRAM SAMMY

You will need:

Appointment
Gown
Bread
Spam
Honey mustard
Pineapple juice
Watercress
Mayo
Good magazines

First, shower.  For some reason you can't wear any perfume, deodorant or lotions to the mamogram, and it's gross to try and wipe it off with some depressing paper-wrapped moist towelette.  Open Spam and slice into thin strips.  If the thought of Spam fills you with as much disgust as it does me, opt instead for pork loin.  Fry in skillet until no longer dangerous to eat.  Mid-way through cooking, pour pineapple juice over Spam, letting it reduce to a nice syrup.  Slice bread and rub one side with honey mustard, and the other with mayonnaise.  Place Spam on bread and top with watercress.  Pack into a lunch bag, and grab your magazines.  I recommend Lucky and Allure because they feature stuff normal people can afford.  If I so much as flip through Vogue I am left with a deep feeling of inadequacy and failure, not at all what is needed for a mammogram.  Go to your appointment.  You will, inevitably be forced to wait for at least forty-five minutes.  Enjoy sandwich while trying not to think about your breasts being squeezed until they are as thin as loose leaf paper in a vise that was most likely devised by a sadistic seventh grade metal shop student.  Remove top and adorn paper gown.  Even though the nurse won't ask you if you have mayo on your body, know that it is entirely possible, so use moist towelette anyway.