It’s that time of year again — actually, I’m two years overdue (where did the time go?) — but tomorrow it’s time to place my lady hibbidity-jibbidity on a slab and let a qualified person smash it into oblivion as a preventative against the dreaded Big C.

First, I’m a big proponent of preventative care. As women, we should always make sure our “girls” aren’t becoming problematic.

But the process … let’s just say it’s not a picnic.

There’s no graceful way to handle flopping your flapjack onto the glass plate with any dignity because, no matter how hard you’re trying to follow instructions, it’s inevitable that the nurse is going to end up manhandling your ta-tas like she’s rearranging a summer ham.

You just have to grin and bear it. Or do what I do: crack jokes and hope the nurse has a sense of humor, and if she doesn’t, just stand there awkwardly and count the minutes until the ordeal is over.

Here’s the thing: there isn’t a woman I know who gets all giddy at the thought of her yearly mammogram.

But catching bad news early is the best way to come out the other side.

So, no matter what, I’ll always dutifully make that appointment and encourage other women to do so as well.

Because all jokes aside, the alternative isn’t something you want to play chicken with.

Of course, because I was feeling smug that I’d made my appointment — feeling very responsible and adult-like — the universe decided to take me down a peg.

As the doctor finished his notes, he said, “Hmm, you’re 53? Looks like it’s about time for a colonoscopy …”

I laughed. He laughed.

I left the office.

Not today, Satan.

Not today.

Kim Van Meter is a former full-time reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Escalon Times and The Riverbank News; she continues to provide a monthly column. She can be reached at kvanmeter@oakdaleleader.com.