There are times in your life that are life affirming and soul crushing. There are times in your life that you laugh so hard you cry, and cry so hard you laugh. And then there are the times in your life that you wish you could crawl under a table and die.
And those moments happen to me about once a week. Luckily for you, the most recent happened this morning and I’m choosing to share it with you because, well, it’ll make you all feel better about yourselves. And that’s what I’m here for.
So this morning I had an appointment with the doctor for my annual checkup. No prob, right? Totally. I got this. I’m all over my annual, and my doctor loves me. Mainly because every time I go to her she has a really fun talk with me about my age and rapidly dying reproductive organs. It’s a good time, we all have a good laugh, and I leave there feeling better about myself than when I walked through the door.
Wait, what’s that? That’s not what happens at all? You are correct. That’s actually how I’m assuming she feels. I usually walk out of there and then have a panicked conversation with CB that makes him feel really uncomfortable and pretend he’s lost the ability to hear things.
Anyway, today I decided that I was going to do everything in my power to avoid the “geriatric pregnancy” conversation and you’ll all be glad to know that I succeeded. However, I now need to find a new doctor because what happened has rendered me unable to ever even walk by the office, let alone go back into it.
So there I am all ready to go, hanging out on the table and just generally enjoying life. The doctor comes in and I’m immediately taken off guard because it’s some dude in a sport coat I’ve never seen before. He introduces himself, starts making small talk about the weather and Thanksgiving, and because my brain works in overdrive when I have anxiety about uncomfortable situations, I decided to just go right ahead and make this as awkward as possible early on.
I mean, why not just cut to the chase? We all know where this is going and so I’m just going to speed things along.
Me: So is it weird when you have new patients?
Me: Yeah, I mean, we get pretty intimate pretty fast and we just met! Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?
Doc, getting super red: Uh…..
Me: I’m just kidding! I know that’s a really overused joke but it seemed appropriate.
You see now this is where, in most people’s minds, they’d just stop talking and let the appointment happen. But instead, I started rambling on about “The Mindy Project” and basically re-telling an entire episode to him as he started the exam, talking about “un-lamp-like feelings” and anything else I could remember.
Why? Because my brain betrays me at very inopportune times and also because I’m a panic-talker.
So finally this horrible conversation is over. Though, to be fair, when I say “conversation,” I actually mean “monologue” because I think he must’ve done one of those things that people do when they’re dying and sort of float outside of their own bodies so he could pretend this whole thing wasn’t happening. Because he literally didn’t say a word except one time when he half-heartedly asked me what “un-lamp-like feelings” meant and then I got into a tailspin explaining it and then he took off his gloves and left the room.
Also, and this is important, I think it’s possible that he mumbled something like “you can put your clothes back on.” However, I did not hear this mumble and so, instead, I sat in the quiet, stark room in my paper suit, waiting patiently for someone to come back in and tell me how to behave like a normal patient.
And so I waited. And waited. And finally just started reading the names aloud of random female body parts that were identified on the lady parts poster hanging in the room. And then I picked up the lady parts model sitting on the table and moved the uterus all over the place like a rubix cube.
What? That’s totally normal.
Anyway, by this point, no exaggeration, I’m pretty sure 5-10 minutes went by. And I started to wonder if we were done and if, perhaps, I should put my clothes back on. So I hopped off the table, turned around, and bent over to pick up my clothes from the chair...as the nurse brought another patient into the room.
Hello, Expectant Mother, I am Becky’s backside. Nice to meet you.
Someone shrieked – it may or may not have been me – and somehow the lady parts model ended up on the floor, uterus rolling across the tile as I scrambled for my underpants and to close the back of my “gown.” And I did that thing you do when you panic put on anything and I started just randomly shoving limbs into leg holes and had my underpants on backwards.
Also, can we just all get on board right now and agree that these need a new name? I’m not walking in a pageant or on the red carpet, I’m being violated by a stranger in a sport coat with a paper sheet across my front and confusing ties all over that never line up properly. So let’s leave the word “gown” behind and call it….paper dress. Deal?
Whatever, it’s totally fine. I mean, we’re all ladies, we’ve seen it before, and who doesn’t want to start off their Thursday morning looking at someone else’s Irish goods? I’m just saying, I mean, I’m a good time.
So finally I get clothed, sheepishly exit into the hallway where I can totally hear you all talking about me, and say “Ok, see you next year!” as if this was all totally normal.
But just as I was grabbing the handle to never set foot in this office again, Dr. Sport Coat said “Next time I’ll definitely buy you dinner first!”
Boom. Well played, Sport Coat, well played.