Believe me, I understand how having a mammogram can raise a woman's anxiety levels. Ever since my mother died of breast cancer at 47, just 16 days after her diagnosis, the disease has loomed in my consciousness, charging up to the forefront as my annual mammogram approaches.

So I appreciate the idea behind the "spa-like atmosphere" that seems to be the rage among breast cancer screening centers. The center I visited yesterday for a mammogram looked a lot like the day spa where Ali and I had facials last October, right down to the New Age music and the subdued lighting.

But when I asked the technician how long it would take for the radiologists to read the film and get back to me with the results, her response was, "Two to three weeks." Two to three weeks?!!

I'd be willing to trade those lovely sofas, floral arrangements, and recent issues of Town & Country for plastic chairs, old National Geographics, and speedy reports from the radiology team. Ten minutes of pretending that I'm in a spa doesn't make up for two-plus weeks of worrying.

And the room with the Siemens Mammomat (a laundromat for boobs?), a high-tech digital imaging machine? It was colder in there than it was outside in the parking lot.