It’s the end of the year and my wife is kicking into high gear, squeezing in all of our doctor appointments before the end of the year. Says I pick at my skin and never wear sunscreen so I have some questionable freckles on my back. She calls it ‘something we have to do’ as responsible adults. I call it a ‘shitty nightmare’.
Today was the dermatologist. We went together before she went to work, so one of us could watch the kids while the other one got a body scan. What’s a body scan? That’s when they say ‘strip down to your underwear, and put this paper dress on. The doctor will be in whenever she decides you’re at the absolute breaking point of wrestling with your kids, while wearing a gown, under artificial light’.
Careful readers noticed the word ‘she’. Yep, you got it. My wife booked the FEMALE DOCTOR.
Every. Dudes. Nightmare.
By the time she finished with her scan, Ava and Charlie had struggled enough to tear my evening dress in three places. I turned the kids over to Jen and assessed the damage.
There was no point in privacy or protecting my innocence. I stood up and ripped it off in frustration. Ava was throwing a screaming fit as our female doctor came back into the room with a female receptionist, so that Ava might go with her to the waiting room for a lollipop. But she didn’t want to go. So it was a giant stand-off.
So there we were. My wife, the screaming kids, a lady doctor and cute receptionist.
And there I was. 35 years old, a slight holiday belly, wearing black underwear and white tube socks with a wristwatch.
That’s how my morning started. What about you guys?