This morning, I set my underwear on fire.
I’ve been dealing with a fairly persistent and uncomfortable yeast infection. I normally don’t have this kind of trouble, but this infection started during my recent overseas fellowship program, and it’s been a real bear to knock out. I’ve eaten lots of yogurt, taken antibiotics, douched with vinegar rinse and practically boiled my undergarments in the laundry. An additional step includes ironing or otherwise heating underwear to kill the problematic candida.
We’re in the midst of refinishing floors here in the house, and we’re cut off from the upstairs while the newly varnished floors cure. Of course, the iron is upstairs, so I’ve resorted to a different panty-heating method in the mornings before getting dressed.
The microwave.
Sticking your panties in the microwave for a minute not only helps to prevent renewed yeast problems but also makes getting dressed on a winter morning a cozier experience.
This morning, however, I forgot to put a cup of water in the microwave with the panties, AND I set the clock for three minutes instead of just one.
The result? Smoking bikinis.
No, I don’t have photos to share. I grabbed the charred underwear and threw them immediately in the sink to douse the red-hot sparks. Afterwards — after a brief discussion about whether or not cotton panties could safely be placed in the compost bin — the blackened, sodden mess went directly into the trash. Then I reached for a different pair of underwear.
So, yes, I do have hot pants. Of the literal, flaming variety. That’ll wake you up in the morning.
