Thursday, May 27, 2010

Mother was right about the underwear

I just got back from my annual, two years in a row now, physical. Now that I am in my forties, it’s time to be responsible with one’s own health. Those that know me will be shocked to learn that I was a few minutes late and no sooner walked in than the nurse was out calling my name.

To me, that is just perfect timing. I really am responsible for putting her back on schedule. Plus, I didn’t need exert myself by sitting and then standing again so shortly after. Nurse Ratched needs to work on her bedside manner though.

“Shoes off” is all she said as she pointed to the scale.
“Do you exercise?” she asked. “Hello, look at me.” I thought. I simply answered in the affirmative.
“Do you smoke?” she asked. I answered in the negative.
“Drink?” She caught me off guard. Was this a continuation of the previous question? Or was she actually offering me a drink? I need to go to the doctor’s office more often. I took a shot “G&T” I said. “I’ll take that as a yes” was her reply as she ticked her little box.
I lost interest when my beverage was a no show so politely answered her questions and filled the cup when she handed it to me.

Hustling me into the exam room, she pointed at a robe and said everything EXCEPT (she was very emphatic on that point) your gitch comes off and that goes on. Off came my trousers, it was then I noticed what a sorry pair of underpants I had on. I call them broken in and comfortable. IronMan calls them tissue held together with an elastic band.

I decided that rather than face a man with ratty looking unmentionables, I would play dumb and go commando. He had to do the turn your head and cough and finger test anyway, surely he would ask me to remove them eventually.

Either way he wasn’t fazed. He told me I had put on weight since last year (there’s a reason not to go back next year) and then when I wasn’t all suited up after he had stepped out for about 30 seconds he thought he was all funny telling me it takes longer to dress as you get older. Not funny.

I was then sent to the lab for a needle jab, several vials of blood were sucked out and then I was on my back for an EKG. “This is the worst part” the technician said as she ripped the little tabs off the zones of my body. At least I had the foresight to manscape so there wasn’t much hair to pull on. Or pull off?

“I’ll call you if anything comes back”, so said my comedian doctor. That was it. No sucker for being a good patient? No G&T and no pat on the back. Mind you he did give me a poke in the backside, so I guess I'll have to make do with that.


Blogger Blair said...

My doctor asked me how many drinks I had per week and I answered "three". He cut me off before I could say bottles. Hee hee.

2:54 PM  

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