April 06, 2013
It’s amazing how we're our parents' children, even in our own old age.
My dear little Irish Mother, bless her heart and her memory, now 10 years passed, had a ritual before taking us kids to see the pediatrician in the early 1950s.
She'd lay out sparkling white and clean underpants for each of us.
Our clothes might have been a bit thread bare, but she didn’t want the Doctor to see our bare bottoms, unless he had to pull down clean underpants first.
So, I was out at the VA Medical Center the other day, approaching age 69, getting checked out by my (as always) proficient and efficient (and attractive) Nurse Practitioner on “Clinic Team A.”
“Drop your drawers, Mr. Richmond,” she said casually.
My blood pressure rose and face flushed red.
“But,” I blurted out in protest, “I don’t have on clean underpants!”
“Mr. Richmond,” she said, struggling to hold back smile and laugh, “clean or dirty, there aren't any surprises in those underpants.”