I call my doctor to report a splitting headache and some numbness in my face. It's outside of office hours.
“In case of emergency, hang up and dial 911.”
Though I feel hesitant, I call 911 and explain the situation.
“We're going to send someone over to check it out.”
Five minutes later the paramedics arrive in flashing ambulances. I hope the neighbors aren't watching.
There isn't one guy, there are six. And they are all really, really cute! This is like some personal bachelorette party complete with Chippendale men. Is this a dream? I half-way expect these guys to start dancing! They're all there in uniform being very attentive, taking my pulse and blood pressure. I'm sure my heart rate must be going up a bit! If I'd known I was going to get this kind of attention I would have called 911 a long time ago and made sure I was wearing something other than sweats! I didn't even put on makeup!
“I didn't expect so many of you!”
I wonder if it would be inappropriate to take a picture.
As five of the cuties are gathered around asking me questions, a sixth goes upstairs. Apparently, it must be protocol for someone to go up and check your medicine cabinet to find out what kind of drugs the poor victim is on. Not that I don't want a cute guy in my bedroom, but I'm not prepared. My room is a mess! And right in the area where the vanity is--where my prescriptions are stored—is where I've left my underwear---dirty underwear! Inside out!
That's not all.
My little stash of drugs includes none other than--I'm embarrassed to say-- vaginal cream antibiotic. Lovely. A vaginal infection is just what I want to discuss with some hot, young paramedic.