I don't know what I was doing in my sleep the night before, but I woke up tired, not the best way to start things off. But who cares! I was only working half a day because I was finally getting a doctor to take a look at my ankle. I'd be home in time to take a nap in the afternoon. Yeah, have fun at work, suckers.
The day started with mandatory training about employee/management relations. I was daydreaming about going home early when the trainer mentioned that supervisors need to pretend to care about employees, even if they don't, or something like that. I have always ruled my departments with a firm, yet gentle hand, so I felt I didn't need to pay attention at that point, until I noticed she was looking at me.
If there's one thing I hate about training, it's group activities or having to talk. Why can't it be like the old days when someone talked and we just took notes or doodled until the class was over?
"What's your name?"
"Hello, Scott. And do you have any hobbies?"
What? I thought this was supposed to be about managing. When did this turn into an inquisition? Hobbies? Geez, I don't know. And I don't really want to share anything with my co-workers. I don't know why, but I always feel strange about letting non-friends know about my interests and activities.
"Uh..uh..um, no. No."
"Oh, come on, I'm sure you have something you like doing."
"No. No, not really."
Everyone was laughing. This happens a lot, usually in situations like this when I'm not trying to be funny.
"He rides his bike," said the teen librarian.
This led to more questions about bike riding and if I went out the previous weekend and it was terrible and crappy and it felt like an intervention or something and why can't I just sit here quietly? Funny, I have no problem speaking in front of crowds, which I do at least twice a week, but ask me about my personal life and you're gonna get a whole bunch of this:
After that terribleness, it was doctor time. Insurance switched my doctor to a place closer to my house, which was nice. The day can be salvaged after all. I fill out the paperwork, and notice that the place is pretty swank looking. Then I go in the bathroom and notice this:
|I realize this is a crappy photo, but I wanted to prove that I wasn't making this up.|
The author asks for $20 for 20 minutes. I thought it was funny that they wrote "asshole" and scratched that out to rewrite the less offensive "butthole." Hey, kids might see it. I felt a little apprehensive that my new doctor's restroom resembled a truck stop, but when I got out some CNN health show was talking about Roky Erickson and mental health, so that took my mind off the fact that my new doctor catered to perverts.
I didn't get a chance to watch too much when I was called back. I got weighed, which proved that, yes, four weeks of almost no exercise and a diet designed by Henry VIII and a kid allowed to buy whatever they want at the store will make you fat.
Then I waited about 3 years for the doctor to show up.
The doctor was younger than me and sort of brusque, not even commenting on the long, grey beard I had grown while waiting. He asked me about my habits and medical history after I told him about the ankle, but it seemed like he didn't really believe me.
"Do you smoke?"
"Do you smoke?"
Hey, John Grisham, I've never smoked. And if I did and was trying to hide it, you think you asking it twice would trip me up? This is when I started to think my new doctor was kind of a dick.
"Well, I'd like to go ahead and give you a full physical today."
When I get terrible or anxiety-triggering news, I have a tendency to lose the ability to speak.
"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. No. I thought we were just looking at my foot?"
"I think we need a full physical first."
"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. I just had one. Last year. Everyeveryevery Everything's fine. Just want to get the foot looked at."
You can't just drop that on somebody. I need time to get prepared for a physical. I came in with a hurt foot, I didn't plan on getting naked today. He seemed even more brusque after that, probably because he wanted to see my pee-pee, then sent me to get x-rays and come back to his house of horrors.
He came back after another 7 years and said that it looked like tendon damage and he would refer me to a podiatrist.
"So, is that bad?"
"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."
"Is there anything I should be doing for it?"
"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."
Fine, be a dick, see if I care. I asked him another medical question that I had mentioned to the receptionist when making the appointment.
"I thought we were just looking at your foot."
Jeez, this guy was really upset about not being able to make me pass out. I guess I'd be upset, too, if I had perverts advertising their services on my bathroom walls. Anyway, he gave me a prescription and wanted to do blood work.
"How does blood work have anything to do with my tendon?"
"It can show overall blahblahblah and underlying blahblahblah and I really just want to poke you with needles."
"Yeah, maybe next time. I'll get a physical this year, I promise."
It was too late for a nap when I got out of there. I did get some cool x-rays, though - check 'em out:
|There's gotta be something I can do with this for Halloween.|