Bosom Buddies

They had the same birth date—except for the year—the same name, the same blood type, and were in the same hospital room. It was no wonder the mix-up happened.

The college girl glared at the doctor. “How could you screw up this bad?”

The housewife, lying in the bed next to her, added her two cents. “Yeah, seriously. I’ve got PTA tonight, and now I look like I’m auditioning for Real Housewives of BFE!”

The doctor’s face was the color of a boiled lobster. “I—I assure you, this kind of error is extremely rare. One in a million. My credentials—”

“Credentials?” the college girl interrupted, throwing a hand up. “Buddy, you stapled her name to my boobs! You call that credentials?”

“Technically,” the doctor said, his voice cracking, “it’s called a misdirected tissue transfer.”

The housewife snorted. “Misdirected? She looks like a Baywatch lifeguard, and I look like I belong in an eighth-grade swim team. This isn’t a misdirect. This is a freaking GPS fail.”

“How long do I have to stay like this?” the college girl demanded.

“Uh,” the doctor said, mopping sweat off his brow with a prescription pad, “until you heal. About a month.”

“A month?” she shrieked. “I can’t go to class like this! My sorority sisters will die.”

“And I,” said the housewife, pointing a trembling finger at her chest—or, more accurately, her non-chest—“have lived my whole life flat, and now I’m in the negative. This isn’t a trade-up, Doc. This is a trade down. And she’s got my tits.”

“I don’t want them!” the college girl shouted. “They’re pointy! I look like Madonna in the ‘80s.”

“Oh, excuse me,” the housewife shot back. “Those ‘pointy’ boobs fed three children, thank you very much. You’re lucky they’re still perky.”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Ladies, please! I’ve already sent a memo to the hospital board about this.”

“A memo?” the college girl said, incredulous. “What, you gonna CC us? ‘Dear patients, my bad, enjoy your new boobs’? I want a refund!”

The housewife sighed. “I want a martini. And maybe a training bra.”