Here's to you Dr. Washington

Friday I had my annual girlie bit check-up. See my nicely folded clothes sitting on the chair? All the underwear tucked neatly inside the other clothes. Sure, you can do a THOROUGH physical, but I don’t want you to see my underwear or bra.

It is the unfortunate state of my being that a doctor’s appointment is a reason to get all gussied up - to shave, to shampoo, to lather, rinse and repeat; to wear nice underwear! I try to dress nicely for work, but I don’t usually care if my legs are shaved. I much prefer getting gussied up for date night with my hubby and a good time that doesn’t involve a speculum.

Nonetheless. I gussied for the good doctor!! After all it was our anniversary.

As I pulled into the office complex there was a young man pulling a cart that was precariously laden with canned soft drinks. I held my breath and waited as he slowly lugged and coaxed the top-heavy cart in front of my car. It teetered, it groaned, it rocked. I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally cleared the front end of my car and made it to the sidewalk ramp. As usual I was about 15 minutes behind schedule and didn’t want to be late for my date appointment. So I started to turn the corner to go to the parking spot I had scoped out.

Just then, soda boy decided that the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. With both hands on the handle, he bent his knees, put his butt into it and jerked the cart in an attempt to hoist the caravan of cokes up and over the curb. The load wavered back and forth in slow motion as though in an earthquake. I knew what was about to happen. I prayed for a different outcome. Then an avalanche of soft drinks tumbled off the cart, onto my car, under my car, into the parking lot and everywhere else. Of course.

What to do? I looked in my rearview mirror. Backing up was not an option. There were several cars behind me and some mean geriatric who was driving against the parking lot arrows was eyeing my parking spot. I thought about racing the old man in the fishing hat but I would’ve had to run over soda boy, his cart and the mother lode of cola, I wasn’t going anywhere soon. Yet I considered it.

Had I a lick of sense (that’s North Carolinian for “if I were smart”), I would have just sat in the car and waited. But no. I did not have a lick of sense. Or a slurp or even a taste. I got my gussied up self out of the car and started hunting cans of soda like they were Easter eggs. And then in some spiteful combination of bad karma and physics, some of the cans started exploding.

Later that same morning.....

As I was sitting on the table in the doctor’s office wearing a paper gown and scraping dried Dr. Pepper off my ankles with my fingernail, I tried to explain to the nurse why my legs were sticky. She closed her eyes and held up one hand in the universal gesture that means “Shut-Up. Now.” She really didn’t want to know. “No need to explain,” she said. “We’ve seen it all.”

I wanted to explain. I needed to tell her that I don’t normally go out with sticky legs.

“But - but - but I gussied,” I stammered, “I showered! I shaved! I wore nice underwear!”

“I’m sure you did. The doctor will be with you shortly.” And with that she left the room.

Unless he’s serving shrimp cocktail next year, I’m not going to bother to gussy. I’ll just spritz a little Dr. Pepper on my legs and be done with it.

Next week I’ll regale you with a stunning narrative expose’ … I’m getting my mammie’s grammed!