I've been putting off my mammogram as long as I can, which is ... oh how do I put this delicately? Well, it's confoundedly stupid, that's what it is.

I had a lump back in 2001. Fortunately, it turned out to be benign, but ever since then I've really, really hated to go for mammograms. I am of the What I Don't Know Can't Hurt Me School.

Since over one in ten women here in Quebec ends up with breast cancer, and survival is all about finding it as soon as possible, my slacker attitude is � well, let's go with confoundedly stupid because we might as well be consistent about something, right?

Right.

The recommendation is every two years. My doctor gave me the form back in January when I had my check-up. It is now � oh, a mere five months later. Money isn't the issue, because I live in a country with universal health care. I don't have to worry about co-pays, they don't exist. I pull out my Quebec health insurance card, and I'm good to go.

Which leaves us with stupidity. Yes, apparently the real issue here is stupidity.

I called the hospital Monday hoping that there would be some sort of huge queue, but there isn't. Friday morning, the secretary told me. Show up Friday morning.

So tomorrow morning bright and early I hop in the Marnmobile, drive 45 minutes to the local hospital. The Girls will be smashed between two icy glass paddles while a technician zaps them with some sort of death ray, images will be taken, and unless something is wrong that will be that.

Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease don't let anything be wrong.

Please.

Intellectually, I know it's important to do this stuff. It's preventative maintenance, just like I do on my car or my house. Get the problems when they're just tiny, not when they morph into some big, overwhelming hunk o' trouble and misery.

Emotionally?

Ah, emotionally what I want to do is just pretend that if I do nothing, then nothing can possibly be wrong. Yes, I'm perfectly capable of taking good care of things but not good care of myself.

Fine.

I dragged my aging carcass back to the gym on Monday. It's been a good two weeks since I've gone. I've told myself that all those hours shoveling and wheelbarrowing were excellent workouts.

Not so much.

It's not that I wasn't working hard and using certain body bits hard, because I was. But it isn't a balanced use of the body. Plus, I didn't do the basic cardio that we all need to do, that 20 minutes of getting my heart rate up each day.

Just two weeks away, and I could see a big drop in my cardio ability, and certain strength moves. Very humbling.

My gym could not be more dead. With spring, sun and warmer temperatures, everyone is spending all their free time outside. I half expected to see tumble weeds roll past as I forced myself to gut out half an hour on the elliptical machine.

It is stupidly hard to work out alone in a large, cavernous room that echoes with whatever cheesy pop the trainer du jour has put on the sound system. Stupidly hard. Monday was a misery, but I did it because if I want to practice Extreme Gardening then I have to keep my aged carcass as fit as I can.

It's hard not to be bitter.

Wednesday was infinitely better. Wednesday the tumble weeds were again a-blowin' in my gym and the trainer du jour was so bored that she asked if she could do my work out with me. Oh, man, having a workout buddy is fabulous. Having a workout buddy who's a trainer? Best Thing Evah.

She bitch slapped my form into shape, got me to erase some of the sloppiness that has crept into how I do certain exercises. My insane competitiveness smacked upside her insane competitiveness and we both worked out far harder than we would have on our own.

Bonus.

I've decided to throw my gym equipment into the car and hit the gym on my way home from my mammogram. If I'm lucky, the gym will be dead, the same trainer on duty, and I'll have a workout buddy.

If not, well, I know that I have to take care of my body. It's the grownup thing to do.

Man, being grownup isn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be as a kid. When I was a kid, I imagined that being grownup meant eating all the ice cream I wanted, staying up as late as I wanted, and spending my money however I wanted.

This grownup business is not nearly as much fun as I imagined, eh?

--Marn