I went to the doctor last week to get a prescription renewal for my blood pressure medication. My doctor wants to see me almost every month. I like to think it’s because of my sparkling personality, but it’s probably just to keep tabs on my mental state and to see if my head has exploded yet. The office staff probably has a pool of some sort in place.
He has a new office, in a brand new building. His office is on the second floor, and I almost always take the stairs. He is always telling me to get more exercise, and so this way, when I arrive in his office, 36 stairs later and out of breath, I can say I’ve been getting my heart rate up and not be lying. Also, the elevator smells like what I imagine the bubonic plague smelled like, and I don’t have coverage for one of those hooded beak wearing doctors.
Also, people don’t seem to like it when I start polls on who we’ll eat first if we get stuck between floors.
At the end of this particular visit, he asked me if I had anything else I wanted to discuss. I briefly mentioned a throbbing in my lower leg where (alert: sexy talk ahead) a varicose vein is starting. So he prescribed me a pair of compression stockings.
I am 38 and one half years old. I like Led Zeppelin, frozen margaritas, vintage concert shirts, and Sponge Bob.
“Is that everything, then?” he asked, gently placing his words between my sobs.
I told him I thought so. Besides, I’ll be there soon again and if I have any questions, I can ask him on my next visit.
Which will likely be about the onset of menopause.