By now, I thought I had suffered every indignity that transition had to offer. Turns out I was gloriously wrong. Somehow I forgot that you should always expect the unexpected.
I suffered my latest humiliation while out for a midweek drink. It was at least fortunate that there were no actual witnesses however. I don’t have the time to be digging shallow graves you know. I’m a busy gal.
This story is also loosely related to toilet humour I suppose but it was traumatic enough to me all the same. If we sensibly gloss over the completion of ablutions then I can get to the point.
Standing up and flushing a toilet should be relatively danger free, as you might normally imagine. Not so if, when at that exact moment, one of your prosthetic breast forms decides to reveal a previously unknown amphibious nature and make an Olympic standard dive for the U-Bend. Presumably a desperate attempt to rejoin it’s brethren in the sea.
There is really nothing at all fabulous about having to fish your tit from the toilet bowl. It’s certainly not a situation I had ever planned for. Even less how you might explain your lopsided cleavage to another toilet customer as you casually attempt to wash your misbehaving mammary in the sink. But still, that’s where this week took me. I’m all about the glamour.
But the important thing is to be able to laugh at yourself in those moments you find you are an absolute fud (Scottish slang, look it up). I actually escaped that toilet with my dignity relatively intact and like the trooper that I am, ordered up a second bottle of wine for us, crisis averted. So today’s lesson might be that when life makes you fall off a horse, get straight back on it. Oh, and don’t skimp on boob glue.