I’m a gal who loves irony.

My readers know I don’t skimp on it in my perspective. There is often a hefty helping of it in much of what I write.

Sometimes irony just stares you in the face when you least expect it.

Like when you are going for a serious diagnostic test.

I’m pretty easygoing when it comes to getting MRIs.

At my age, I’ve had my share.

So for yesterday’s hi-tech photoshoot of my brain, I knew the drill.

No metal. Off went the rings, the belt buckles, the underwire bra, yadda yadda. The night before, a half-hour struggle removing my stubborn wedding ring was finally achieved with copious anti-bacterial soap. Short of taking out my silver fillings I was metal-free.

Or so I thought.

Snug in the tomb-like MRI tube, the friendly tech handed me plastic earphones as though she was a lovely flight attendant on a pre-COVID flight. Sweetly she inquired about my choice of music in order to block out the riot of noise that would soon surround me.

Grateful at her offer, I asked for something I thought benign- classic rock.

A half-hour with the Beatles, the Temptations  or Carol King seemed suitable and distracting.

As the distinctive ear piecing, clanking, screeching, banging, and knocking began I realized my ears were being barraged by more than the MRI machine.

In a metal-free zone, I realized heavy metal music was streaming through my earphones.

A medley of Megadeath, and Iron Maiden was screeching through my ears. I guess on Long Island this is considered classic rock, winning out over hometown boy Billy Joel.  It was hard at this point to distinguish between the disturbing racket from the machine and the assaulting sounds of Judas Priest.

My head is exploding from the irony….hopefully that won’t be recorded on my scan.