Yesterday I had my annual Ob/Gyn checkup, or, more accurately, my annual visit to the Ob/Gyn Waiting Room.
Because let's face it, it's an annual appointment to sit and read magazines quietly with strangers. Ending in a check-out room involving paper clothes and small talk.
You would think after decades of doctor visits, I would learn to bring my own reading material. But I don't, and I'm left choosing between Working Mother and Field and Stream. WTF. Where are all these fishing physicians coming from. And the whole "Working Mother" thing just seems to be mocking me wherever I go.
After 45 minutes, the Fake-out Nurse comes through the door and calls my name. The Fake-out Nurse's sole purpose is to trick you into thinking you're next. You are so not next. She simply leads to you another smaller, more naked waiting room.
On the way of course is the pit-stop at The SCALE. You know - the one invented in the 1800's with the Sliding Chunks of Doom. Dude - you expect me to just step up on a scale MID-DAY with all my clothes and shoes on????? That is just uncalled for. Everyone knows your true weight is first thing in the morning, before breakfast, after peeing, no clothes. Fake-out Nurse proclaims my weight out loud - (Bitch!)-, which is my cue to act nonchalant, as if this pronouncement has not totally plunged me into a fat-panic so far-reaching that I will not hear a word the doctor has to say.
On to Waiting Room #2, where she instructs me on disrobing and pledges that the doctor will be "right in". The doctor will not be right in. In fact, feel free to call your college roommate, start your taxes or take a nap. They could at least provide me with a cup of crayons to draw on the paper table-liner like they do at Chili's.
Wait time: 1 hour, 15 minutes
Examination time: 4 minutes
Wall clock time checks: 18
Mental beauty makeovers of receptionists: 3
Presumptuous assessments of couples' relationships: 4
Envious feelings towards pregnant women: 0
Fantasies of indignant protest over wait time: 5
Actual indignant protests: 0
And so, in the end, Receptionist-Who'd-Look-Better-With-a-Stylish-Bob writes me an appointment card for a year from now. When, like the pain of childbirth, I will have forgotten about the wait and once again brought nothing to read. Good times.