The girls have been having one adventurous year - leaping out of planes, running in Iceland, walking all the Cinque Terras, being awestruck in Cambodia. But in the in between times, they are in preparation mode. Like Rocky. Preparing for their eventual send off. And part of that process includes getting an MRI.
If you've never had an MRI, I can only describe it like going to the world's worst night club.
The entry fee varies. But it either falls into the category of a concern that needs to be checked or a routine confirmation that all is (still) fine. Pretty hefty price, as far as peace of mind goes.
If it is the girls that are being scanned, they ask you to remove your top and put the gown on, with the open side to the front. I mean nobody's even bought you dinner yet.
Dancing? Forget about it. There are few moves you can do placed faced down, girls hanging out in their own little cups filled with cotton (measured out roughly for varying size). A headset is provided and the background house music starts thumbing. No kidding. Then comes this high pitch sound coming from somewhere in the middle of the universe. Whirling noises all around.
Then just as you are kind of getting used to it, the iodine injection is released and your whole chest heats up. Like hot pockets. If this was his stand up routine, Jim Gaffigan would sing, Hot boobies.
This goes on about 10 minutes, after which, you dress and drink about a gallon of water, to wash the radiation out of your system. Which you buy and serve yourself, might I add.
They say a lot of people are going but I don't think I'll be coming back here anytime soon.
Not even if they get a new DJ and the music gets better.