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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?"


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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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