Today, a thing of doom occurred. After successfully avoiding the medical centre’s reminders about having a cervical smear for nearly five years, a wily nurse rang up this morning and shamed me into a booking at 2:30.
This in itself is enough to cast a pall over an otherwise pleasing Wednesday, but it gets worse. After I got off the phone I realised, what with the weather we’ve been having lately, I am so behind on the washing that my underwear options are limited to three.
So, gentle readers, tell me: which would you rather wear to your inaugural cervical smear?
1. A G-string. I am not a G-string person, as tangibly illustrated by the fact that the snortlepig pulled off the wee pearly bit of bling at the front. Nevertheless, this single specimen of its type (black, lacy), by virtue of never being worn, is available. But it rather seems like overdressing.
2. A pair of enormous white cotton granny pants, bought by mistake in a packet which origami-ed them into a far less tent-like shape and implied that the bulk of the packet signified many pairs of knickers, not one really really big pair.
3. A pair of perfectly respectable black stretchy knickers, vaguely sporty, casual, neither risque nor Amish - but still on the line and slightly damp.
You perceive the Gordian knot of my dilemma? The knicker-twist, as the Greeks should have called it? Unless Pair 3 dries in the next two hours, I must face a member of the respected medical community in garb which makes me look either like a woman of the late afternoon or my own Aunt Mabel. If I had one. Which I do not.
These are the times, etc.
Mother Says:
AprilElf Says: