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05.17.2004 - 7:36 p.m.
Monday
The thing more embarrassing
than slamming your own damn hand in a car door? Even worse than
slinking to the doctor's office convinced you may have broken
your hand? Finding out that your hand is intact, and you cannot
even sport an athletic I-fractured-this-whilst-rock-climbing
sort of mesh cast. Fooey.
I went to the doctor on my
coworker's advice ("Daaaamn, that is NASTY looking")
and endured the 7462579623421 hour wait in the doctor's office.
You know, the tiny closet to Narnia (but…you know, depressingly
sans Narnia) area in which you sit, floating in purgatory,
wearing your open-backed gown - why, why, why must I wear the
gown? It is my HAND, my hand, it needs no gown! - waiting, waiting,
waiting. I read Time. I read Newsweek. I read, god help me, Good
Housekeeping. And then. Then. Then I read…
PREGNANCY JOURNAL.
Or maybe it was Pregnancy Today.
Or Pregnancy Hooray.
Or, Massively Hot Chicks With
Sexy Protruding Bellies Whose Mission In Life Is To Make You
Feel Bad.
Or something.
Christ, there was nothing
else, okay? I'd even read the helpful pamphlet on self breast
exams (ooh, circular).
If I ever have a bun in the
oven, please, for the love of everything, please keep me from
this magazine. It had everything the expectant mother might enjoy:
- Stern, lecturing article
on how breastfeeding is the ONLY way to go, and if you deviate
you may as well toss your baby from a large rocky cliff. Then
set him/her on fire.
- Fun exercises for the 9-month pregnant woman, sporting pictures
of what was obviously some sort of alien being, and/or a supermodel
with a pillow stuffed under her bodysuit
- Interview with Denise Richards (you know, the unibrow who married
Charlie Sheen?). Yeah. That's realistic shit for the masses.
"Hee hee, I can't wait to get back into my tight (size -00.1)
jeans!"
- Forty jillion ads for the cutest most expensive baby clothes
on earth except hellooo this is a baby right and don't they spend
their time ejecting solids and liquids from various orifices
for the first year?
Feh.
And all that boring-ass reading
for nothing. But I did get to peer lustfully at my hand X-rays.
That was awesome. Just - me, stripped to my bare self. No skin
or fat or cells or muscle memory, just my clean white bones.
That's what I'll look like in 1000 years. That's what is under
my betraying skin, my untrusting self. Bones. They were, and
I don't think I've said this about any part of my body before,
beautiful.
I have to say I HATE going
to the doctor. Hate it. And I always wish for some diagnosis
that justifies the trip. I mean, knock wood and all. Don't get
me wrong - I didn't want "Yes, unfortunately that hand is
going to have to go. Here's a selection of some lovely stainless
steel hooks."
I do want to get my mitts on
those X-rays. Can you just ask? Or what?
"Hi. Um, I would like
a copy of that one X-ray I had done, with my hand making sort
of an "OK" sign? 'Cause that ruled. Also could I come
back for another? It involves one finger. I'd like to paste on
some text that reads RIDE STOPS AT THE ELBOW. Hello? ..Hello?"
last ::: next
13
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004
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