So, is that what you’re wearing?

Fake it ’til you make it, right? Biopsy was scheduled for 9:30. I woke early, with a slight headache, for I had drank ALL THE WINE. I could find. In the world. The previous night. Biopsy day! Four spots, four shots and four needles. Ew.

I’ve always believed if you have no idea what to do or how to act, fake it. So, as my mother taught me, I took a shower, blew out my hair, and put on lipstick. And walked into the living room.

Pam: “Are you wearing that to the hospital?”

Me: “Yes, why?”

Pam: “But leggings? Hmm.”

Me: “Um do you have another suggestion? I’ll be lying on my back getting stabbed in the most sensitive part of my body, I figured comfort was paramount.”

I guess when she STOPS telling me what to wear and critiques my lipstick I’ll know I am really screwed.

Biopsy sucked. I put a bath towel on my face, laid back, and pretended I was sunbathing. Except I was in a hospital room, the sound of a drill-like machine was 8 inches from my face, and I was crying. So kind of the same thing. Post-procedure bruising is insult to injury so, wine.