Have you ever done Secret Santa?
Who am I kidding? Of course you have, it’s the go-to Christmas exchange for uninspired, unoriginal people everywhere. Normally I don’t take part in it because I would much rather spend my money on gin than a novelty gift that will be chucked away by the 26th for someone I probably don’t even like that much.
But one year I got roped into it against my will and I decided to embrace it because this wasn’t just any Secret Santa. No, this was Sexy Secret Santa. The potential for hilarity and embarrassment was too much for me to pass up and it also gave me the excuse to visit Ann Summers for the first time. Unfortunately this isn’t going to be a hilarious sex shop story – though being approached by a sales assistant carrying a large pulsating rubber penis is not an experience I am going to forget – because the real embarrassment of Sexy Secret Santa did not occur until several months after Christmas.
I was gifted with some fluffy handcuffs and a pair of crotchless underwear. They were very pretty but seemed completely impractical so they were relegated to the back of my underwear drawer never to be worn again.
Unfortunately I underestimated my laziness when it comes to washing my clothes and this is where my story of awkwardness and embarrassment begins:
As I've mentioned previously, I have arthritis and when you have a condition like this it requires regular appointments with a rheumatologist. This particular event happened during my very first appointment at the ungodly hour of 9am. Considering it takes 45 minutes to reach this particular hospital, my mum was insistent that we leave at 8am at the very latest.
A sensible person would shower the night before and lay out all their clothes for the next day.
I am not a sensible person; I woke up at 7.45 and had approximately eight minutes to shower, brush my teeth, put my make up on and get out the house. The shower did nothing to wake me up and once again the notion that I am not a morning person occurred to me as I attempted to put mascara on my lips. My mum was shouting that we had to go NOW; I was trying to wrestle my soaking wet hair into some semblance of neatness while simultaneously pulling on whatever clothing was still on my floor before dashing out the house.
Fortunately I hadn’t made time to go to the toilet before we left so it was a blissful relief when I was asked to provide a urine sample - though I wish they wouldn’t make the cups so conspicuous considering I had to walk through a packed waiting room advertising the fact that yes, I am about to have a piss in this unfeasibly tiny container and then I am going to carry it back to the lovely nurse who did nothing to deserve having to hold a still-warm container of my pee. It was during this process that I realised the error I had made this morning...
In the rush to leave the house I had put on the first pair of underwear I could find. I forgot that my underwear drawer was pretty sparse due to my inability to use the washing machine and that is how it came to be that the only pair of underwear left in my drawer was... you guessed it. The crotchless ones. Bollocks.
My rheumatologist is a very nice, very quiet middle aged man who didn’t really say very much as I blathered on endlessly about my symptoms. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humour either because he didn’t even laugh when I told him about the time that I tried to slut drop on the dance floor after too much vodka and my knees gave out leaving me stuck mid-squat for several minutes. In fact it was kind of like talking to a strict head teacher but this was okay... until he uttered the words that filled me with a cold rush of dread. “Right, we’re going to do a physical exam”
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Hospital gowns are not made for modesty. You know one of those moments where you realise your life is out of control? You’re running down a hill knowing that there is a cliff at the bottom of the hill and you’re not going to be able to stop in time before running off it? As I stood clad only in lace-up crotchless underwear and a backless hospital gown, I realised that this was one of those times.
Physical exams are very physical; the clue is in the name. Any hope that he wouldn’t notice my breezy dilemma went completely out the window as I lay spread eagled on my back while he cycled my legs in the air and moved them up, down and side to side. I thought I’d reached my quota of embarrassment for the rest of my life but no, whatever cruel god that gave me my joke of a life had one more trick in store.
I had to stand up and touch my toes.
To reiterate, I had to stand up and touch my toes in a backless hospital gown wearing crotchless underwear while my rheumatologist stood behind me checking my spine.
I’m pretty damn flexible but there is no way that I am bending down to the touch my toes in fucking crotchless underwear so I settled for a half-hearted hover near my knees. “Just a little further” he said as he started gently pushing my back. The realisation that I was pretty much re-enacting a low budget porn film crossed my mind and this brought a wave of hysterical laughter. And once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop.
The nurse in the room had no idea what was happening. I was bent over wheezing with laughter, the gown had pretty much fallen off at this point and my poor, poor doctor was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed the gaping hole in my underwear as he attempted to continue his exam. At one point he got the nurse to come over to hold the gown together at the back which gave her an eyeful as well.
We’ve had two more appointments since then and I still haven’t been able to make eye contact with him.
