Last Thursday I experienced a sharp piercing pain in my chest... probable cause: stress and overwork (it was already 10:00pm after all). After a few minutes, it subsided, but the fact remained that 2 of my coworkers had witnessed it and were insisting I go to the hospital (something I hate almost as much as planning a night home just so I can catch the garbage truck).
10:20 pm: a young shy giggly gawky intern asks me into a curtained area to stick probes to my chest. He is so embarrassed he has to ask my coworker to accompany us. Test over; nothing wrong with my heart… I knew that! Now time to talk about lungs. He takes out a piece of paper with a couple of mawkish outlines that look more like kewpie dolls than people. He starts to scratch a little mark on the chest of one of them.
“Is that me?” I ask.
He giggles a bit more, “I guess I should draw some long hair and make it more beautiful.”
“How lame,” I think. But then I notice he has turned rather pink and is fluttering his eyelashes frantically. I didn't know men do that! But it was effective. I noticed that although a little geeky, he had quite attractive eyes and I could see that he was smiling underneath that green surgical mask. Anyway, I should give him a break since English isn’t his first language.
“You know,” he leaned in a little closer and said in a whisper, “it’s not uncommon for young women in their 20s or so…”
“Or so,” I said quickly… Now he is laying it on a bit thick. I survey myself and notice that although still wearing make-up from the afternoon’s presentation, I have already changed into old jogging pants to make my overtime that much more comfortable.
He flushes brighter (maybe he is just embarrassed to talk to a foreign woman?), “It is not uncommon for young women to experience stress-related pains… but I think you should stay a little longer. We will take an X-ray.” Great! I want an X-ray about as much as I’d like to double my work load at the office. But as he is starting to look cuter by the moment (maybe I just wasn't ready to return to the office?), I agree and follow him down the hall.
When the X-ray is over, my two coworkers and I sit in plastic chairs waiting for the results.
“So…” Tammi begins, “He seems interesting... er, interested!" (We have just completed a textbook unit on participial adjectives) She flutters her eyelashes in imitation and asks, "Please, please won't you give me your number?” I smack her. "Maybe you can get a back pain next week," she continues.
“You never know…" agrees Joan. But we are interrupted by his return.
He stands in front of me and removes his mask. I try to keep a determined smile on my face, but start to doubt the wisdom of faking illness next week. Maybe I was just being shallow... I wait till he is out of sight before daring to look at Tammi.
“Well, nothing a good pair of braces can’t fix.” I can’t remember who said that because Tammi was busy laughing. I felt so terrible. I knew I was shallow, but not THAT shallow… but then again, I have always had a thing for nice teeth – a good smile. I suffered through 2 years of braces myself at age 26. I'd like to change the ending and slap on a moral and/or some kind of didactic ending, but there is none.
The outcome of the whole ordeal is that I didn’t get a date with the buck-toothed doctor, but I did get a prescription for Xanax! Only 3 days supply though. Don’t think this is worth much on the black market… and since Aly McBeal isn’t a close personal friend of mine, I have nobody to give it to… so in my bag it knocks around next to an equally poisonous cigarette that I snatched from an about-to-smoke person and hence forgot about. Oh! There’s my didactic ending. You should regularly clean out your bag in order to avoid pulling something embarrassing out at an inopportune moment.
Ah! But I really feel so horrible. I almost think I should go back and ask him for his... well, how about just email address?
