the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Ample parking

Up until about three years ago, my idea of a doctor visit was a trip to the local after-hours clinic, and
then only in extreme cases like a broken finger, or to obtain medical permission to keep some horrible variant of the flu to myself at home for a few days. Basically, I'd gotten used to living without insurance all those years, and I was still acting like I had no medical net.

After increasingly violent migraines began to keep me home from work more and more often, though, I finally decided that a "responsible adult" would likely have chosen a trusted family doctor by now. I perused the yellow pages and picked a doctor whose office wasn't too far from my house, and who advertised acupuncture (I don't know why that made me choose it, as I've never had acupuncture, but for some reason, I found it reassuring).

Of course, the first thing a woman must do when she meets a new doctor is show him her vagina. Now, that's my kind of first date! So, before my first appointment with Dr. E, I primped and prepped like I was going out for a night on the town with Taye Diggs (minus the clothespins on my nipples, of course). Everything I thought the doc would be closely examining got a good polish (that statement would be ever so much worse if I were a man). I was prepared to meet -- and impress! -- the doc.

Dr. E is the coolest guy you'll want to meet. He's a smallish man, probably in his mid 50s, from India if I had to guess, and has just the sense of humor I want in someone who is compelled to see me naked. He put me right at ease with his gentle demeanor and his quiet chuckling at my self-deprecating jokes. In fact, by the time he had me up in the stirrups, I was less twitchy than I've ever been when someone was about to clinically gaze at my holiest of holies (go watch "Pulp Fiction" right away if you don't get that reference). Even his cold little hands kneading my bazongas in a very non-sexual way didn't make me want to crawl out of my skin.

Then he decided to make conversation.

Dr. E had worked his way down to the heart of the business, the main attraction, the headliner -- you know, my "special" place! He had his head down under my paper gown, in the usually-I-make-them-buy-me-dinner-to-look-at-it area of my body (that's right, only lunch is required if you wanna see my tits), and he was lookin' right into the heart of darkness. If I wanted to be really
disgusting, I could say he was up to the elbow in the heart of darkness, but that's pretty revolting, and a slight exaggeration. Nonetheless, he was face-to-clam with everything I've got when he piped up with this little icebreaker:

"So, how old are your children?"

For a frozen moment, my mind screamed "Oh, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I really, for once, didn't know what to say. I finally managed to respond, every so dryly:

"Um. . .I don't have any children."

There was a moment of considered silence from his side of my paper gown, and the last thing he said for a long time was:


Jim, of course, was completely delighted by my slightly humiliated retelling of the incident. He likes to remind me of that day occasionally by cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting "Hello (hello) (hello)" as if he's screaming into the Grand Canyon. I then like to remind him that there's no echo at all when I keep my legs shut, laughing boy!