I had a doctor’s appointment recently, a doctor that I don’t see but about once a year, and since he probably doesn’t read my blog, he knows nothing of how fascinating I am other than what he reads on my chart. I am just the next body on the medical production line.
I understand that. He is a busy man. He’s a doctor. He’s got a lot to keep track of. Still. I just think that if someone is going to get to see you semi-naked they ought to at least make eye contact with you, they ought to at least pretend that you’re special.
So I’m in the exam room, I’m in my paper party dress, I’m teetering precariously on the table with my arms crossed and my legs twisted up like a pretzel in an effort to keep the party dress on when the doctor breezes in.
He, apparently, is already involved in a conversation, about me, but not with me. I’m not really sure if I’m in the conversation or if I’m in the audience. Kind of like Ron Paul at the Republican debate.
“I see here that you’ve had a hysterectomy since the last time I saw you,” he reports without looking up from the chart.
“Yes, well, I like to keep busy,” I say.
He stopped with the chart and the flipping of the chart and the writing on the chart. And he looked up at me. At my face. In my eye.
And after a momentary awkard silence when I thought he might lecture me or send me to the principal’s office, he sort of sniff snorted. He snorffed. And then he snorffed again.
And then he went back to talking to my chart.
Laughter is the best medicine, but a snorff might cure what ails you too.