Aselin

Generally, I don’t care for doctor visits; I consider them a necessary evil. Doctors themselves are fine, as long as I don’t see them in their office. The whole experience goes against the way I naturally roll.

Rushing to be on time for an appointment only to sit forty five minutes in an uncomfortable germ infested waiting room where sick people have congregated for the last ten years, sniffing, coughing and reading the same outdated People magazine - because let’s face it, no one wants to read the Popular Science. We only want to look at the magazines we’re too cheap or too ashamed to subscribe to.

So there I am, with my People, trying to decide if celebrity #1 Chi-chi Spinoza looks better in the same outfit celebrity #2 Zola Bandita wore to a different function when this couple walks in holding hands. I think, “aww, how sweet, I remember back when my husband cared if I lived or died and came with me to appointments.”

As they signed in I couldn’t tell which one was the patient they were so connected. They selected seats to my left and began to talk about their upcoming weekend.

In baby talk.

“Should we go swimming at my pawent’s house?”
“Oh, I wub, yew in a swimming sooot.”
“Awww, baby waby yew are soo sweeeet.”
“Wubby bubby, what are yubby going to say to my daddy?”
“Dat I lubby you!”

I’m caught in one of those car crash kind of moments. I know propriety says to quit eavesdropping, but I just can’t turn away. I’m wincing and straining to hear better at the same time. As they conversation progresses, the couple moves closer and closer together until suddenly, they’re making out!

Pretending to be engrossed in the People magazine, my mind is reeling. This is no little smooch session. There are arms groping and she’s got her leg swung up on his chair. Shouldn’t someone stop them? Should I throw a Popular Science at them to break them apart. I’m staring at the one-way mirror check-in window wondering if it’s part of anyone’s job description to throw water on the waiting patients.

Sadly, no one appeared with a hose, so the display continued for good five minutes. Baby waby, Wubby bubby and me. There. Alone. In the waiting room. Talk about third wheel. I was praying for the door to open and somebody, anybody call my name. It was like the doctor lotto. Pick me, pick me, pick me..............

Thankfully, the outside door flung open. While the lovers didn’t even pause, I was thrilled to have someone else join us. Maybe I could forge some sort of bond with the entrant and we could silently roll our eyes at each other as the couple remained oblivious to our judgements. I was so excited for my new friend.

In walks Cowboy Bob, in full rodeo regalia. Tight wranglers, boots, hat. OK, not what I was expecting, but maybe he can fashion his belt into a whip and stop the inappropriately amorous display. Wait, he’s already carrying a whip.... no, it’s a leash.... it’s a dachshund on a leash. It’s a dachshund, on a leash..... in a hot pink dress.

Are you kidding me? I am not at the psychiatrist so WHAT THE HECK??? This is quickly turning into some sort of live Dr. Seuss skit.

Cowboy Bob’s wife follows him in, sits down and begins to talk to the dachshund. Yes, in baby talk. I put my face in my hands trying to stifle my chortle. It didn’t work, it only amplified my loud snort.

I know no one is going to believe this, so I pull out my cell phone and turn on the camera. I have no idea why I was trying to be discreet - this crowd would not have noticed normal ‘ol me in the corner, but I was pretending I was texting while aiming my camera at the dachshund and the wife. Snapping a blurry photo just as the doctor opened the door to call my name I leapt to my feet feeling a bit like I was being released from prison.



As we walk to the examination room the doctor asks “How’s your day?”

Truthfully I answered, “Dull, till I got here.”