These words are always preceded by “let’s run this test . . . [all together now] . . . just to be sure.” The words are even worse when the recommended test is a mammogram. Aside from a colonoscopy, I can’t imagine anything less inviting.

Guys, don’t tune out! You can be treated to this delight as well . . . just to be sure.

Some parts of the anatomy have no business being held in the vise-like grip of a machine that surely must have been designed as a Medieval torture device.

Recently, I had the immense discomfort and displeasure of being subjected to this horrid practice. If wearing a paper top wasn’t bad enough, I was told to prevent any other body parts from getting in the way of the one object of the technician’s attention. Don’t they know these things come in pairs?

In addition, I was to stand still, as if I could move, hold my head back, and not breathe.

“Just to be sure” that the image would be clear, the technician tightened the machine a bit more. Well, by then, not only should the image have been clear, the tissue itself should have been transparent considering that it was the thickness of Glad Wrap.

Not only was I not moving or breathing, I was tightening any muscles that might help me retain control of my bladder as I feared it might yield to the excruciating pain. Yep, if you ever wondered whether urine could be squeezed out of you, I’m pretty sure it can. Thank the Lord, I made it through the squeezing as dry as a person sweating profusely from mammogram machine abuse can be.

“Just have a seat back out here,” the technician said, motioning to the area where I had awaited my painful fate. Thank goodness, it wasn’t the lobby; I was left with some semblance of dignity.

“The doctor will look at that and see what to do next,” she added.

There I sat in my gorgeous paper bed jacket praying that it would hold and that my freshly mangled bosom would have to recover only from the test.

“We need you to come this way,” said a different technician. “We need to do an ultrasound just to be sure.”

Now, let’s get this picture in our heads, folks. We have a sweaty, mangled woman wearing a paper top that could dissolve at any moment and carrying a purse as she heads to another part of the building with the technician . . . just to be sure. Indeed, I was sure – sure that I was terrified.

“This may be a little cold, but I tried to warm it,” the technician said. I’ll give her credit; the lubricant didn’t make me shudder or jump though I did expect it to sizzle as it hit my skin. We discovered she has relatives that live not too far from me – a bonding moment, I thought.

“O.K.,” she said. “Wait here while the doctor reads it. It won’t take long. We just need to be sure.”

Well, she was right about that. The door opened and in strode the doctor.

“Why haven’t you had a mammogram recently?” he demanded.

Well, I don’t know, I thought, since they’re so much fun. I was in no mood to be lectured.

“My doctor hasn’t mentioned it,” I said.

I didn’t know whether to be scared or mad. I did know that using such an accusatory tone with an out of sorts nearly naked woman was unwise.

Yes, I should have thought of it since these tests are such a blast, but I didn’t.

I later noticed I was lacking symmetry. One-sided tests will do that to you even when the results are good.

And there I was thinking that 40 Long was a man’s suit size. I know different now, and I am most definitely sure.