I tried to pretend that everything was a-okay and gave her a look that I hoped read as inquisitive, along with a thumbs-up sign. It was a pretty nonsensical response, but Gillian didn’t seem to notice.
“I just booked the PRESIDENTIAL campaign!” she squealed, hugging me.
Oh, wow. I knew Gillian was good at her job; I didn’t know she was this good.
“Wow!” I said. “So you’ll be like, tweeting for someone running for president?”
“Um not exactly. It’s more like…the presidential campaign, and I’ll be tweeting for like, people that are in support of the president. So I write a bunch of things for them to say, and then it makes it look like they want her as president, too!”
“Is that false advertising?” I said before I could stop myself.
“Is it false advertising when you retweet something that you agree with?”
Right.
I felt something suddenly scratch at my ankles, and when I looked down, I realized it was Mrs. Purrpaws, attacking me for the eight millionth time this week, probably. It wasn’t that the damn cat hated me; it was that she hated literally any human being that wasn’t Gillian. And now, due to my super fun allergies, I was going to have itchy ankles for the rest of the week.
“Oh look!” said Gillian happily, scooping her up into her arms. “She’s so happy for me!”
At least she wasn’t scratching me anymore. “Yeah, she’s uh, she’s definitely celebrating!” Gillian nuzzled Mrs. Purrpaws’s long fur, and Mrs. Purrpaws lovingly placed the pads of her paws on Gillian’s face.
I smiled.
Mrs. Purrpaws hissed at me.
Against my better judgement, I took a double-sized bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, hoping that Gillian wasn’t saving it for her picnic tomorrow, and stumbled my way to my bedroom. Right before I climbed on top of my bed, I somehow managed to trip on something sticking out from underneath it.
It was the corner of…something. Black and heavy, it had barely moved when I bumped it. I set the wine bottle down and knelt down on the ground to pull out what I now realized was my oboe case.
Oh, god. As I rested my hand on the top of the case, I could feel the familiar drumming of my heartbeat, getting louder and faster, telling me that my chest was going to constrict any moment. Music started playing in my head…bright lights in my eyes, making me sweat everywhere…then silence, absolute silence, and then—
With a sudden shove, I forced my oboe case under the bed and myself out of my panic. I laid on top of my bed and poured myself glass after glass while I watched the only thing that I knew would relax me—my ant farm.
Stress was a constant companion in my life, and despite all the hours I spent at the gym every day, despite my evening runs, my yoga classes, my meditating, my clean eating…I was wound tighter than a rubber band ball. And then, one day, I had walked in on one of the twins in the living room, watching a documentary about ants.
For the next hour, I was mesmerized. Ants were so organized. They each had a job to do, and did it without question. They were all always taking care of each other, anticipating needs before they even happened. All I had ever wanted was for my life to be like those ants—to be a part of something bigger, to do my little job to make the world a slightly better place. Did ants stress about things? I didn’t think so.
Before that moment, I had always hated bugs; I thought of them as horrible little constant companions that required squishing ASAP. I had almost burned the bathroom down the last time one of those terrifying centipedes came up from the shower drain, because that was the only way that I could picture ever going near that half of the apartment again. But colonies…there was something different about them.
The next day, I had ordered an ant farm and an envelope of live ants from Amazon. I would have gotten a beehive, but I didn’t think Gillian would let me keep it in the house.
Watching the ants live their tiny little lives was my own form of meditation. They—or possibly the wine—were calming me down, slowly. But eventually, my mind began to wander.
I was dating the love of my life, Sven. He was perfect in every conceivable way: he was charming, attractive, and had an average-to-larger-than-average-sized penis. And he made money—so much money. Our plan was for me to retire after he got his next promotion, so that I could run the house, and he could earn the dough. I wanted nothing more than that perfect house, adorable kids, vacationing in Cancun…too bad he didn’t want to marry me. I tried to stifle a sob, but it came out much more loudly than planned.
As I watched my ants, I wondered how they felt about each other. Did ants love the way people love? Did they have husbands and wives, or at least lovers? Or did they spend their lives feeling as alone as I did in this moment?
But ants…they were never alone. They were surrounded by friends all the time, friends who knew exactly what they were going through because they were in the same boat themselves. Assuming, of course, that they saw each other as friends. Maybe their brains couldn’t comprehend the concept of friends. I wish my brain couldn’t comprehend the concept of friends, I thought to myself bitterly. Then, at least, I wouldn’t be so disappointed when Gillian wasn’t there for me when I needed her.
My bottle was halfway gone, and so was I.
Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe I should expand my ant farm. Maybe I should make an entire house, just for ants. Or maybe I could live LIKE an ant! I could get together a bunch of people and move dirt around and get pieces of leaves and…
Okay, maybe being an ant wasn’t that great after all. Maybe I was lucky that I could make choices and shit with my life. Maybe…
Fuck.
I spilled the rest of my wine bottle all over my bed. I hated sleeping on anything but a perfectly made bed with my two specific pillows (one memory foam, the other down-filled), my silk sheets, and navy blue duvet. And now it was all soaked.
Figuring I had had enough to drink anyway, I threw a towel over the huge wet spot on my sheets and crawled on top of them, still wearing my scrubs, completely alone in a house full of people.
Chapter Three
Sometimes, We Are All A Little Clumsy
“Good morning, sunshine!” said Bernard as I stumbled into the door to Happy Healthy Teeth. It was only five minutes before my shift, but I normally showed up at least twenty minutes early. He smiled at me brightly, and without asking, walked over to the counter in the waiting room to pour me a cup of black coffee. I chugged it so fast that I definitely burned my throat, but it was worth it.
I must’ve forgotten to set my alarm last night, after drowning my sorrows in that giant bottle of wine. Also I was maybe a little hungover but I would never admit that I had been drinking alone last night. I was with my ants; did that count?
“Had a little bit too much to drink, didja?” said Bernard knowingly, and I nodded, annoyed at myself for being such a goddamn honest person. “Went out with Sven last night?”
I nodded again. It wasn’t technically a lie: we were out…for three or so minutes.
“Well, your first patient is in ten. I think. Maybe in an hour. I can’t read my handwriting. Dr. Booper has been on me about that, but as I always say, you can beat a dead horse, but you can’t make it drink!”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Whelp, you should probably get suited up! And I brought bagels and donuts, so no worries if you skipped breakfast!”
Sometimes, I really wished it was easier to hate Bernard, especially because he was actually probably the worst secretary in the universe.
After stuffing three donut holes into my mouth at once and accepting that they were all the calories I could consume for the rest of the day, I trudged into Exam Room One, which was the closest thing I had to my own office, as it was generally where I worked. I nearly spilled the rest of my coffee all over myself when I realized there was already someone else in there.
“Cyril!” I said, much more aggressively than I had intended. I almost growled a little bit, whic
h was exciting because I didn’t even know I could growl. “In here today?”
She slowly turned her head and vacantly looked at me. Cyril had never been my favorite, but we tolerated each other well enough while working together. This was partially due to me being the superior hygienist—by a lot—and her accepting that without question. She wasn’t bad at her actual job, exactly...but she was off-putting. She made patients uncomfortable enough that they often specifically requested that I clean their teeth. This meant that my schedule was normally way fuller than hers, and I therefore got to work in the bigger exam room. It just made sense.
But here she was, right in front of me, setting up everything the way she liked it. Which was, quite literally, everything: Cyril was a lefty, and by the time I walked in she had switched everything to the wrong corner. Even if I convinced her to go back where she belonged, to Exam Room Two, there was no way that I would have enough time to switch everything in One to be easily accessible to me before appointments began.
“Oh hey, Penny,” she said, as though she had just noticed me there. It had been at least thirty seconds since I had spoken. “Dr. Booper wanted me in here again today, so I switched everything in Two to make it easier for you, using your right hand and all.”
Great. I would be cramped into a teeny-tiny exam room for eight hours, while Cyril would go home at one o’clock, leaving a perfectly good, twice-as-big exam room empty. What a waste. As much as I enjoyed working for Dr. Booper (okay, kinda sorta enjoyed), sometimes he made pretty dumb decisions.
Briefly, I considered complaining, before remembering that I had to have a serious talk with Dr. Booper today, and bringing up petty complaints in the morning probably wasn’t the best way to start off.
So instead, I rounded the corner to Exam Room Two, already frustrated by its cramped setup.
When Bernard brought the first patient in (not ten or sixty minutes later, but thirty), I was hiding in the bathroom, trying to make myself look presentable. I never left the house without a shower, a blow dry, and a face of makeup, but my late start this morning had made that impossible. I splashed some water on my face, and comforted myself with the reminder that I would be wearing a mask when I was with my patients.
From what I could hear through the bathroom door, Bernard could barely maneuver the patient into the chair without knocking over my tray. From the back, I could hear the clatters and clangs and Bernard’s apologies, and I prayed that they hadn’t broken anything too valuable. From looking over the patient’s paperwork, I learned that he was brand-new to our practice: thirty-two, a outdoor education teacher, here for a routine cleaning. Easy peasy.
“Hey there,” I said, entering Exam Room Two. “Toby, right?”
The man in the chair smiled at me. His teeth were…fine. They weren’t straight and blindingly white like Sven’s, but then again, he also probably didn’t obsessively whiten them either. He was wearing a long-sleeved tee, his arms thrust awkwardly in the tiny spaces between his body and the sides of the chair. “That’s me.”
Oof. This guy was kinda cute. Not that I was looking, or anything. That would be unprofessional. Besides, I had a boyfriend.
I introduced myself and held out my hand. Weirdly, he stuck out his left hand to shake mine instead of his right. Maybe nobody had taught him how to shake hands. Whatever, he was still cute. I mean. You know.
“Alrighty, can you sit forward please?” I said, and he did as I asked. I noticed that he moved a little strangely, didn’t use his arms at all, just his abs. I clipped the paper apron around his neck, trying possibly a little too hard to avoid actually making physical contact with him. “Okay, well let’s get started. Can you open up wide for me?”
Lovely, healthy teeth. This wouldn’t take long.
Unlike a lot of men his age—well, of any age, to be honest—he was very good at listening to my instructions: he opened and closed when I told him, and only struggled a little at keeping his tongue out of the way.
It wasn’t until I handed him a rinse-and-spit cup that I figured out what had been off about him the whole time. He reached forward with both hands, except…except he didn’t have both hands.
Toby was missing his right arm from the elbow down.
I made a weird noise, something along the lines of a snort and a rabbit squeal combined, and tried really hard to act normal…but it was as if I suddenly had forgotten how to do that. Was I looking at his arm—or lack thereof—or was I looking into his eyes? Where do I normally put my hands? Do I usually lick my lips this much?
Concentrate, Penny. Do your job. Instead of focusing on Toby’s body, I leaned right back in and stared at his mouth. Wow. His teeth really were great. I wished my teeth looked that nice, and I could get a cleaning whenever I wanted—although I avoided it, because Cyril was the worst ever at making smalltalk.
I was great at dentist office smalltalk. That was...until today.
“I hear you’re an outdoor education teacher,” I said, squeezing between his chair and the counter for a new roll of floss. “That must be lots of fun! I can tell, you’re very toned, you’ve got great muscles, even on your right arm. I mean...uh. You look like you spend time working out...no. Nope.”
Leave it to Penny Partridge to make this appointment as uncomfortable as possible. The only thing saving my butt was the gauze I had shoved into his mouth, keeping his jaw wide open and rendering him pretty much unable to speak. Time for Smalltalk Topic Numero Dos.
“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” He grunted, and as was the norm in my line of work, I had no idea what he was trying to say. “Well, the weather is supposed to be great later in the week—I don’t know what I’m doing yet though! Not that...you care about that or anything. I mean, me asking you if you had plans for the weekend wasn’t me trying to...you know.” Oh god. I was making it worse. “Uh. All I’m saying is that the weekend will be happening and the weather is nice. And that it is irrelevant what I am doing and what you are doing because we will definitely not be spending the weekend together. Or anything.”
Right on cue, Toby made some gurgling noises, probably because it had been awhile since I used the sucker to get the excess spit out of his mouth. When I leaned in to get to his molars, I noticed that his breath smelled just like my favorite toothpaste.
“Colgate Silver?” I asked rhetorically—I knew I was right. I could identify nearly every toothpaste by smell alone. Toby’s enthusiastic nod told me that he was possibly just as much of a toothpaste connoisseur as I was. Strange things excite you when you work in a dentist office long enough.
It didn’t take long for me to finish cleaning his teeth—they were meticulously cared for, had essentially no tartar, and there were no hints of cavities. Unfortunately, while doing so, I had accidentally made three more inappropriate comments, two about his missing arm, and one that somehow hinted at him having a large penis.
A huge sigh of relief escaped me as he finished his final rinse and spit: things certainly hadn’t been comfortable, but I was glad they hadn’t been worse. There was no room behind his chair, so I had to reach over his front to unclip his bib. And then, before I knew what was happening, I had lost my balance, slipped on the tile floor, and fallen facedown. Directly into Toby’s lap.
Oh shit.
Mortified, I tried to scramble up, repeating “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again, and in my haste managed to stick my knee directly in his crotch.
How is this happening to me?!
His howl of pain brought Dr. Booper running. He entered the doorway to the sight of tangled limbs in the chair, me climbing all over Toby in attempt to escape, and him cupping his crotch with his left hand, either laughing or crying. Possibly a bit of both.
God. This was so, so unlike me. I always had my shit together, I always said the right things at the right times, and I certainly never, ever tripped and fell into a patient’s lap—let alone, a patient that only had one arm. But eventually, I managed to shimmy myself to a standi
ng position, where I very professionally folded my hands in front of me and looked pleasantly at my boss.
Luckily, Dr. Booper knew I wasn’t a complete creep, and waited for me to explain before yelling at me.
“This exam room is so small, I just tripped on something, and...” It had all happened so fast, I wasn’t even sure how everything had gone down. “It was an accident?”
And then, at the same time, both Dr. Booper and Toby started laughing. I waited patiently for them to finish, my face reddening even more, if that was possible. Finally, they were done.
“Well!” Dr. Booper said, clapping his hands together and then pulling his mask over his nose and mouth. “Shall we go for round two?” He squeezed past me through the doorway, and began his examination without another word. I stood there in shock, willing my heart to stop racing.
I wasn’t fired. Nobody was angry. The world would keep spinning, and we were all fine.
I just had to pray I would never see this guy ever again for the rest of my life.
It was three o’clock, and we had a free half hour with no appointments. This was it. I knocked on Dr. Booper’s office door.
“Come in!” he said pleasantly. Not really any more pleasantly than usual—he was a pretty pleasant guy. “It’s open,” he said regularly.
“Hey there,” I said, turning the knob and poking my head in cautiously. “I had something I wanted to ask you, and umm...yeah. That’s why I’m here. So. Yup.”
“Come on in, Penny, I was just about to have a Thin Mint. Would you like one?”
I really wasn’t hungry, and I really hated Thin Mints, but I didn’t want to be rude so I accepted one. I took a tiny bite and stuck it into the side of my cheek. Mmmm. Mint-flavored chocolate. I quelled my gag reflex and sat down in the empty chair.
“So uh, I’ve worked here for lots of years,” I started. I really should have written out exactly what I was going to say. Why was I here again? “And um, mostly it’s been great and stuff, and I love all the responsibilities I have and everything...but I do a lot around here. Way more than most dental hygienists do. And I think that maybe it’s possibly time for me to kind of get a little tiny bit of a raise?” Okay, not the cleanest way of getting there, but I made it eventually.
Impractically Perfect: A Romantic Comedy Page 2
