Monthly Archives: July 2010

In Which a Super Virgin is Not a Real Thing

I pinky promise that I’ve been knitting.  And I pinky promise that as soon as I can put myself, my camera-wielding father, and a day that doesn’t involve a thunderstorm, all in the same general vicinity, I will show you what I’ve been knitting.

I decided that I really needed to finish up several projects before I started anything new, so as not to get overwhelmed.  I used to be a one-project-at-a-time kind of girl, but that fell by the wayside when I started college in Boston and found a yarn store that stocked Malabrigo.  You know how it is.

I gathered all of the projects that I left for dead a long time ago (well, most of them; some of them just can’t be saved), and used a four-day stretch where I had to have surgery and couldn’t go to work (which, for the record, accounts for, like, 92% of my time) to crank them out.  Two of them are done and blocked, and the others are pretty damn close to binding off.

The surgery I had to have was minor, and didn’t even result in a cool scar.  I really love scars because they have stories behind them.  Even if it’s something silly like, “this is where I walked into a door when I was eight,” or “this is where I scratched my chicken pox even though my mother told me not to.”  But any scars that I have aren’t worth commenting on, because I tend to scar even if  I just get a scratch, and for the most part I can’t even remember where I got them.  So I figured that if I had to have surgery anyway, at least I’d get a big scar out of it.

But, alas, my doctor is good at what she does, and I have a small, thin mark that she said will go away in the next few years.  I’m going to pretend that I’m not disappointed.

The surgery was not totally without event, though, as I accidentally told the nurse that I was a super virgin.

In case you were wondering, a super virgin is not a thing.  There is no comic book hero named Super Virgin.  And it is certainly not a thing that one should say to a medical professional.  The conversation went something like this:

Nurse: Is there any chance you could be pregnant?

Me: No.

Nurse: But how do we know that?

Me: Because I’m, like, a super virgin.

It’s possible she wasn’t as condescending as I thought, but they wouldn’t let me drink coffee or eat, so I wasn’t in a particularly good mood.  And it wasn’t a lie.  I’m a good little Catholic girl.  But a super virgin is not a thing.