Undone

It all started with a drinking dinner out with my best girls.

Annie, Jules and I were having a simply lovely evening.

All was well in the land of chardonnay and laughter.

And then it happened.

A twitch.  An itch. 

Estrogen levels began to plummet.

Frothing and writhing ensued.

Me, not them.

Before I knew it, my neck was being lacerated.

There was a tag in my shirt.

How'd that get there?

ZOMG the agony of it all.

The clawing was fierce.

I think I caught a glimpse of their horrified faces...

In between the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Mine.  Not theirs.

Annie and Jules were apoplectic....

(And that, my friends, could be a first.)

All they could do was sip and stare.

But I digress.

They were afraid and cried out:

"Mental P!  Your shirt! It's tearing!"

And I was all, "shirt?"

"I don't need no stinkin' shirt." 

And with that, the offending article was extricated with a flourish.

And all was right in the world.

Then, if memory serves, we ordered another round.

Amen.