So there I am, staring at the ceiling, naked as the day I was born, feminine hands massaging my breasts. This scenario gets only slightly less sexy when I tell you that I was at my annual "girly" exam.
"These," she says, pointing down, "are normal."
And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. My boobs have been officially approved by a licensed professional.
Now I need to find my smelling salts. Being referred to as "normal", for perhaps the first time in my life, has given me the vapors.
P.S. Ok, what the hell are smelling salts? Other than a frequently reappearing motif in tales of Victorian times.
