Free Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? by Jen Lancaster Page B

exploding open the bathroom door located eight feet away, like a small, corn-chip-scented cannonball.

And there he was, Fletcher in all his mystical glory, pants around his ankles, Star magazine in his hands, reading an article on Nick and Jessica while nature and all the fiber in our diets took its course. Our eyes locked with the kind of paralyzed horror one thief might have when bumping into another thief, finding themselves in the awkward, unfortunate position of having broken into the same home at the same time.

I was the first to react by shrieking and pulling the covers over my head while Maisy bounced back and forth between the bathroom and the bed, delighted to have united us all in the experience.

When the screaming on both parts finally subsided, I stumbled across the room, eyes clamped shut, and gently closed the door.

We shall never speak of this again, he and I. Yet the image will be burned into my retinas for eternity.

Hold me.

Jen

P.S. Am not a drama queen. Am traumatized .
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Tuesday Afternoon Drinking Club
    I n my former, auspicious career I addressed crowds of thousands without breaking a sweat. I negotiated with dour, gray-suited hospital administrators so hostile they’d drag me into the desert and leave me for dead given the opportunity, yet I stood my ground in demanding they accept my company’s contract, “Or else.” And I’ve guided corporate executives through the most dire of crises with a smile on my face the entire time. So you’d think chatting with a kindly medical professional in the privacy of her office wouldn’t be but a blip on my radar.
    And that would be true.
    If I were wearing pants.
    Today I’ve got an appointment with the girlie doctor and I’m nothing less than terrified. I’ve put off my annual well-woman exam for four years because I’m so cowardly about this sort of thing, no doubt stemming from my Quaker-like sense of modesty. Sure, it’s all well and good to litter my conversations with every variety of f-bomb, 1 but when it comes to showing my unmentionables to a complete stranger? Regardless of her impeccable medical education, extensive experience, and board certification? I think not.
    However, I’m really trying to act more like an adult lately, 2 so I force myself to make the appointment. Of course, I have to down a whole bottle 3 of wine to do so. And then I cancel it three times before Fletch, disgusted by my lack of courage, threatens to (a) drag me to the appointment on a leash like we have to when we take Loki to the vet to have his nails clipped, and (b) check me into the Betty Ford Center if I don’t stop inhaling boxed wine every time I look at the phone.
    I have to honor the appointment this time and the only way that’s going to happen is if there’s an elaborate system of treats and rewards in place. I decide my beforehand treat will be a trip to the bookstore, so I ask Fletch to drop me off at the Michigan Ave Borders an hour before my appointment.
    We’ve just gotten in the car when I start to hyperventilate.
    “Funny, but Loki doesn’t start to panic until after we’ve exited our parking lot,” Fletch observes. “You need to breathe in a paper bag or something?”
    “No.” Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. “I’ll (gasp) be (gasp) fine,” I reply.
    “I don’t understand your anxiety. Are they going to cut you at all?”
    “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” I shriek.
    “Then they’re just going to look at stuff?”
    Gasp. “Right.”
    “Alone, in an exam room—just you and the doctor, and no one else, right?” We cross the bridge over the north branch of the river at Division and begin to drive past the projects.
    “Yes.” Gasp.
    He glances at the boarded-up buildings with their broken windows and concertina wire and poses a question. “Okay, which would you rather—to be dropped off in the middle of Cabrini Green at midnight with a handful of cash or to see your gynecologist for a routine visit?”
    I don’t even have to consider the