Yesterday, I drove my kid from Atlanta to Mobile. And I had a mammogram. I would sarcastically joke that I don’t know which was more fun, but that wouldn’t be honest. We took a detour through Destin, Florida, just so that we could polish off some char-grilled oysters, which alone are worth the drive.

Yes, they’re that good.

The mammogram? Not so much. Three years ago, one revealed what they said was “something suspicious.” I was referred to a breast specialist — a man, of course — who poked, prodded, and played with my boobies before doing an ultrasound and proclaiming I had nothing to worry about. “It’s a cyst. We’ll just keep watching it.”

So every year, I faithfully keep my appointment to “watch it.”

And every year, when I have my mammogram, I think about a cashier in the parking lot of the Atlanta airport whose name, I swear upon my Maidenform, was named Mboob.

Mboob was lucky enough to have me in her line a few years ago. And I was dumb enough to repeat the name to my kids, who promptly made 4,336 jokes about it in the next three days.

Jokes like “Have you met Mboob?”

“Have you seen Mboob lately?”

“Mboob has a twin.”

You get the idea. I finally got tired of the Mboob jokes and threatened to stop buying milk if I heard any more milk-comes-from-Mboob jokes.

The moratorium on Mboob lasted two days, until we were in South Florida and passed a sign for Naples. “Mboob wants to go to Nipples!” Lyla shouted.

Mboob started complaining the second we stepped foot in the doctor’s office yesterday. She began making fun of the massive portrait of the breast specialist positioned so that it’s the first thing you see when you walk into the office.

“Someone is just a tiny bit happy with himself,” she snickered. I told her to hush. Then she spotted a portrait of him with a white-haired lady. “Who has a portrait made with his mommy? Is he gay?”

“Keep it up, Mboob, and I’ll tell the mammogram gal I LIKE extra pressure.”

She was cool during the ultrasound, and even managed to only giggle a little when he poked her and played with her and jiggled her. But she got testy during the mammogram itself when the woman mashed her down to the width of a bottle cap and then said sternly, “Don’t breathe!”

“Is she serious? I’m in a vise with sharp edges. It’s the equivalent of being run over by a beer truck, and she’s yelling at you to not breathe?”

I ignored her. I was too busy not breathing.

You never get these results right away. I took Mboob home, and we drove to Mobile. She stopped bitching at me, finally, when we pulled into the Acme Oyster House in Destin. Then, when we stopped at Lulu’s, the place owned by Jimmy Buffett’s sister, after dropping my kid off in Mobile, she was practically beside herself with joy.

Me? I still can’t breathe. Not until I get those results.