The other day I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor—not because I'm afraid of needles or tongue depressors or anything. It’s mostly because I think it’s a giant waste of time. I go to the trouble of getting work off, setting an appointment, locating my insurance card amidst all the frequent bread buyer and yogurt club cards, and nine out of ten times the doctor does next to nothing to alleviate my symptoms.
“It’ll run its course,” he’ll say.
And that’s when I punch him. Right in the kisser. Or at least I imagine it really vividly. I wonder what it must feel like to charge people for nonexistent services. If I wanted a passive prediction of bodily regeneration, I would’ve just drove right past the doctor’s office and gone to my parents’ house. My mother would undoubtedly have uttered the very same vague pronouncement that everything would turn out all right. And she would’ve scooped me a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream to soften the blow and improve my otherwise phlegmy day.
But I don’t explain this line of thinking to the doctor. I just stare at him with arms crossed, brow furrowed and demand, “Are you at least going to scoop me some ice cream?” He looks at me puzzled, but my resolve and countenance are unflinching. I want my ice cream.
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3 comments:
You would make a great two year old.
I am learning how very violent you really are. At least in you imagination. Good think Steff doesn't read you blog> I don't think she would be ammused.
If he ever gives you the ice cream. Ask what flavor is it and doubt!.
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