So then, last week I had a doctor’s appointment. I always take a little extra time getting ready for the doctor and dab a little Dr. Pepper behind each knee, don’t you?
It was a mostly uneventful doctor’s visit except for the fact that the good doctor had a medical student helping him. The nurse was kind enough to ask me first if I minded if the med student was in the room observing. I said, “Sure, why not? The more the merrier!” Which made her laugh. Tip: If you can make the nurse laugh, you can get more samples.
The intern was 12-years-old. Or maybe he just looked to be 12-years-old. Doogie Howser comes to mind.
With the real doc at one end and the boy doc at the other, I turned to see him not observing at all, but looking at his manicure. And a little green around the gills. I tried not to take it personally.
To distract him from the unspeakable horror of seeing an aging woman in what can only be described as an awkward position, I asked this young child what kind of doctor he wanted to be when he grew up. No, not really. I didn’t say that last part out loud. I don’t think I did anyway.
He told me he wanted to be a gas doctor. I wasn’t sure if he meant he was studying to be a gastroenterologist or an anesthesiologist. When no one said anything, he quickly clarified that he wanted to be an anesthesiologist.
I wanted to tell him that if you are going to be a gas doctor, be a big gas doctor. Just to see if I could get more samples out of the nurse.
But I didn’t say it. Out loud. I restrained my inner 4th grade boy. Until now.
And now Antique Mommy is chuckling inappropriately and putting herself in time out.