December 2, 2011
One of the great joys of going to an appointment is looking through magazines.
A dentist appointment where I have to get a cavity filled suddenly becomes my hidden sanctuary; my kids are being watched by my mom, I’m 8 minutes early, and there’s a recent copy of Vogue on the coffee table: Cue bliss.
This is what life as a mother has become. I now look forward to my annual Pap smear because I know my doctor’s office subscribes W Magazine, and if I get out early I might just swing by Mother’s Market and do some child-free shopping to pick up a homeopathic allergy medicine and chia seed snacks. Winning!
Yup. Life as a mother is very glamorous.
But I totally judge a waiting room by their magazine selection. And if they have a crappy selection, I may just consider going elsewhere.
My Dermatologist has a bad selection of magazines, but they have a flat screen mounted in the corner, and usually the Food Network on. So I don’t mind that they only have Business Consumer magazine and Good Housekeeping.
My childrens’ pediatrician has really dumb magazines, but they always have Travel and Leisure, so that makes up for all the messy stacks of Highlights and free copies of WebMD strewn around the room. I pride myself on the fact that I can usually thumb through a magazine while my kids are bouncing around because once they’re locked in that exam room I figure whatever they play with is fair game. I mean, they locked is in here for 23 minutes, what the hell do they expect me to do with my unruly kids, sit quietly and read a sticky copy of Highlights? No thank you. First my children usually go straight for the mini blinds, then the drawers filled with gauze squares, and finally they take turns pushing each other around on that wheeled stool, all while I hum to myself and dog ear pages of whimsical vacations. Ahhh, Prague is so magical this time a year.
I had a physical yesterday with a new doctor. She’s my mom’s GP, and since she does acupuncture, I thought I’d give her a go. Plus my mom had been nagging me for 3 months straight about going to the doctor.
Have you had your thyroid checked? You’re looking thin.
You know, high blood pressure is in our family, you should have a blood test.
It doesn’t hurt just to get things checked out. You’re a mom, so you need to take care of yourself.
Apparently she thinks I’m going to suddenly stop living. And then she’ll just shake her head and say, “I told her she needed to get a check up.”
My approach to medicine is to do nothing and wait.
Apparently my approach to medicine isn’t her favorite. And apparently even though I’m 31, I still need to be mothered.
But I obliged. Mainly because she used extortion to get me to go. “I’m not going to watch your kids until you make a doctor’s appointment.” She told me.
My mom is a crafty one.
The waiting room was average. Nothing too exceptional. There were a lot of Cosmopolitans, and those are basically one step above a porno mag, but I shifted around and found a GQ. And once I was inside the exam room I found a Harper’s Bazaar, so things were looking up.
Then the doctor came in and we chatted lightly about my health, and then she wanted to check my lungs and whatnot. So first I sat forward and she checked my breathing with her stethoscope from my back, then she came around towards the front.
And this is the part in the story where I tell you that I was wearing my “chicken cutlets.”
Perhaps a photo might help?
My top was tight and my boobs looked unshapely, so I stuck some extra business down my bra. And I was moments away from my doctor feeling me up and discovering my Target boobies. I took a deep breath in and averted my eyes.
Yup, there she was. Her stethoscope was resting, a direct hit, on my cutlet. I tried to act natural, but how could I when everything about this situation was so unnatural. I let out an uncomfortable laugh, but it came off more like a whimper.
She knew I stuffed my bra and now our relationship had to end. Much like when a high school boyfriend feels you up only to find crumpled up tissues.
I know our relationship had only just begun, but now it was over. I blame my search for finding a newer doctor on her lackluster assortment of magazines, but we all know the truth.
The dirty chickeny truth.