A tale of the straight and narrow

BY PETUNIA PAP SMEAR

The road to walking the straight and narrow is fraught with danger and excitement.

Two months ago I told you of my attack of the dizzies. Let me continue that story. After the hunky emergency room doctor told me I had a case of vertigo, he prescribed that I take Dramamine and, to my immense disappointment, before I could get him to give me a pelvic exam, told me to go home and make an appointment with the dizzy clinic. Who knew there was such a thing as a dizzy clinic?

When imagining a place called the dizzy clinic, all I could visualize was a building full of blond people unable to form coherent common-sense trains of thought and incapable of finding the exits. Reluctantly, I called the dizzy office and the soonest they could get me in was a week later. I was still very wobbly and unable to walk unassisted so in the meantime, while awaiting my appointment, I decided to do some online research about vertigo to see if I could find a way to lessen my distress.

My first Google search turned up a review of Vertigo, the Alfred Hitchcock movie, so I watched it while lying in bed to see if I might be able to pick up a few tips. I must have fallen asleep during the movie because I woke up screaming just as Jimmy Stewart pushed me off of the bell tower at First Baptist Church and the immensity of my bodicus profundus abundus was plunging downward on a collision course with a line of people waiting to enter for Third Friday Bingo. More quickly than if I had announced that I needed help moving to a new house, the people fled in all directions, lest they be skewered by a plummeting breasticle.

On the day of my dizzy clinic appointment, I was very apprehensive as Nurse Ratchet, who could best be described as a female Gollum, led me to the examination room. Just who and what were they going to do to me? My pulse quickened when the doctor entered the room. OMG, what a superb specimen of humanity. To my astonishment and delight, he was wearing a snugly fitting t-shirt, that showed off a classic V-shaped torso, rippling abs, and bulging biceps. As if that were not tempting enough, he was also wearing tightly packed mid-thigh length shorts, barely able to contain significant bulges in all the strategic places with tanned muscular powerful legs protruding below. He looked more like a personal trainer at a gym than a medical clinician. Six-packs and biceps and thighs, oh my!

Doctor Swoonworthy sat on one of those rolling stools and wheeled himself directly in front of me, placing my legs between his muscular thighs with my knees almost touching his crotch area. My pulse quickened. He gently cupped my chin with his left hand and held open my eyes with his right hand while he shined a blindingly bright light while gazing into my eyes. I felt as if he were looking directly into my soul. His lips were tantalizingly close to mine. I could feel his minty fresh breath wafting ever so gently over my face. My God, I was getting dizzier with each passing second.

Before I could collect my senses, Doc Swoonworthy placed my arm on his and his hand on the small of my back lest I fall over to help guide me to an exercise room. I nearly fainted. If it weren’t for me being so unsteady on my feet, we could have danced a waltz. For my first task, he asked me to walk heel-to-toe in a straight line without falling. He followed me, holding his hands just inches away, to catch me if I lost balance. It was an exceptionally good thing that he was a powerfully built man because I was only able to take about three steps before tottering over. He deftly caught me in his powerful arms and stood me back up. Repeatedly, over, and over. I must have toppled over at least six times.

Next Doc Swoony required me to stand on one foot, with eyes closed to see if I could remain upright. I could not. Again, Doctor Flawless had to catch me several times. Each time he would catch me, I would open my eyes to see his crystal blue eyes gazing into mine. One time, I could have sworn that his eyes sparkled like diamonds.

Subsequently, Doctor Pornworthy required me to perform several more equally humiliating exercises. Each and every one designed to cause me to lose my balance, with him catching me each time. And to add temptation to embarrassment, in all this manhandling he would crack a wide smile with perfect teeth and giggle. After an hour of this, I was very exhausted and ready to go home, but I was ever so eager to make a return appointment.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1. Should I form a petition to request that a pelvic exam be standard with every emergency room visit? If only to check for clean underwear?

2. If I had indeed fallen from the bell tower, would the resulting crash have set off the Wasatch Fault?

3. Would taking a field sobriety test have prepared me for these exercises?

4. When Doc Swoonworthy was looking into my eyes, was he doing a medical check or inspecting my make-up?

5. Just how many times did I fall into Doctor Swoonworthy’s arms on purpose?

6. Should I install convenient grab bars on my breasticles to enable Doctor Swoonworthy more easily to steady me?

7. Was I tipping over because I was dizzy or because my breasticles made me topheavy?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.