I sat down on one of the two sad plastic chairs in the “waiting room” and propped my feet up on a box while I filled out the standard intake forms. I usually fly right through the columns, knowing the answer to all of them is “no,” because I don’t have any heart conditions (that I know of), I don’t have diabetes (that I know of), I’m not pregnant (that I know of), and I’ve never had surgery of any kind . . . wait, have I?
“Excuse me,” I called out to the receptionist, who was wrapping something ceramic in newspaper.
“Yes?” she asked, annoyed.
“Is Botox considered surgery?”
“No,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot,” I told her, feeling the need to defend myself. “I just get a little between the eyebrows. It was starting to look like I had a number eleven on my forehead.”
“Uh-huh.” She was disinterested.
“I’d show you what I mean, but I can’t make the number eleven there anymore because of the Botox. That stuff really works, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” she repeated as she put the item wrapped in newspaper into a box.
“You sure you guys aren’t moving?” I asked, pressing her.
“We’re not moving. Are you done with your forms? The doctor will see you now.”
“Wow, that was quick,” I said as I handed her the clipboard. “Usually doctors take forever. This is great!”
But is it great? I wondered. Why isn’t he a little busier? At least make me wait twenty minutes for show or something.
Mrs. Personality led me into a room, took my blood pressure, and weighed me.
“One hundred thirty-five pounds,” she said in what felt like the loudest voice in the world.
“One hundred thirty-five?!” I repeated in a panicked whisper. “That can’t be right. I weigh one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Weigh me again, I’ll take my shoes off.”
She looked down at my blue Havaianas, then back up at me. “You think your flip-flops weigh seven pounds?”
I really didn’t like this bitch. “Forget it. Obviously your scale is off. Or maybe it’s because of whatever is wrong with my hormones.”
“What’s wrong with your hormones?” she asked, genuinely interested now.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m here. Can I see the doctor now, please?”
“He’ll be right in. He’s just finishing up some packing.”
“Packing? So you are moving!”
“No, we’re not moving,” she said as she exited the room.
What the fuck is going on in this place?
A couple minutes later, the doctor came in, planted himself in a little chair on wheels, and rolled over to the exam table, where I was sitting.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”
“It’s Colonna.”
“Ah. Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”
“No, Colonna,” I repeated.
He just sat there blinking at me. WTF?
“Good afternoon,” I said, giving up.
“So what brings you here today?”
Ugh. I hate when they ask you that after you’ve just spent fifteen minutes filling out forms explaining what brought you there today—the same forms they appear to be studying while you repeat exactly what’s written down.
“I haven’t been myself lately; I think there’s something wrong with my hormones.”
“What do you mean by ‘haven’t been yourself’?” he asked, taking notes. Seeing him take notes actually made me uneasy. My gynecologist didn’t need to take notes; why did he?
“Well, I’ve been very . . . on edge.”
“What do you mean by ‘on edge’?” he repeated in the exact same voice in which he’d asked the last question.
“What do I mean by ‘on edge’?” I repeated sarcastically. “I mean that I am on edge . . . like more than usual.”
“Uh-huh, I can see that,” he said as he jotted something down.
“No, I’m not on edge right now, I just mean in general lately I’ve been a little more on edge.”
“You seem a little on edge right now, Ms. Corona,” he said with a weird lilt in his voice like he was kind of enjoying irritating me.
“Well, I wasn’t on edge when I walked in here, but yeah, you’re right: I’m a little on edge now.”
“And why do you think that is?” he asked as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his large nose.
Is this guy fucking serious?
“Dr. Goldstein—”
“Goldberg.”
“I’m sorry—Dr. Goldstein. I’m not really here to talk about my feelings; I mean, you aren’t a therapist.”
“Do you see a therapist regularly?” he asked as he jotted down yet another note.
This guy was really getting on my nerves. Yes, I was feeling extra bitchy. But this doctor was prodding me and I couldn’t figure out why. Everything he said was in a tone I couldn’t quite put my finger on but I knew I didn’t like it.
“Doctor,” I said in a very calm voice, “I’m not here to discuss my mental health with you. I feel like you want me to but I don’t want to do that. I’m just here to find out why I’ve been super bitchy lately and also how it’s possible that I gained seven pounds since I left the house this morning.”
“Oh! You’ve noticed weight gain?!” he shouted almost gleefully.
“Well, I noticed it when your receptionist weighed me, yeah.”
“Well, that is my specialty,” he said proudly.
I looked around the office and noticed several different posters for several different kinds of weight-loss supplements.
“Wait, is this a weight-loss clinic?” I asked, confused.
“No, no, no. Not at all,” he laughed (which was weird). “I see patients for all kinds of reasons, usually hormone-related treatments, which I assume is how you found me, right?”
“Well, yeah, I think so,” I said, trying to remember how I did find him. Was it Yelp? TripAdvisor? Craigslist?
“I specialize in hormone imbalances. It’s just that many times, especially in females, hormone imbalances lead to weight gain, and I have a very high success rate in helping women lose that extra weight.”
Well, that wasn’t what I had come in for, but I figured if I left the office with a few diet pills it wouldn’t be the worst outcome.
“But let’s focus on why you’re here, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, relaxing a little.
“So why are you here?”
I’m going to kill myself.
“The thing I said about being bitchy, remember? The conversation we had like four minutes ago?” I said, my voice rising in annoyance.
“Okay, okay, yes. That. All right, I’m going to do some general hormone testing and we will go from there. It’s possible you have too much testosterone in your system, which can sometimes lead to ‘edginess’ and even weight gain.”
“Well, obviously I have too much testosterone in my body, Doctor. Listen to my voice. And this afternoon I watched an entire hockey game . . . on TV. I definitely have too much testosterone. How about you check my estrogen and see if it’s . . . there?”
“Oh, I love hockey. Which is your team?”
“I don’t have one! That’s why it’s weird that I watched an entire hockey game on TV. Seriously. I think I need estrogen.”
“Okay, we will get to the bottom of this. The nurse will come in and take some blood samples, then we’ll call you when the results are in, you’ll come back to see me, and we’ll go over them. Sound good?”
“Sure. Will you guys be here or at your new location then?” I asked, hoping to trick him into admitting they were moving. I’m nothing if not persistent.
“What new location?”
“Well, there are boxes everywhere. And
the receptionist was wrapping stuff up. And she said you were packing . . .”
“Oh, no, I was packing for a weekend trip, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well, what is she packing for?”
“She’s just keeping busy,” he said as he smiled and walked out the door.
The nurse came in right after, took my blood samples, and told me I could go home. When I walked out, there was still nobody else in the waiting room. I looked over at the receptionist, who was now taking things out of boxes and putting them away. Clearly, business was slow. That couldn’t be a great sign for either of us.
A week later, the receptionist took a break from wrapping knickknacks for no reason to call me and tell me my results were ready. Of course, she wouldn’t give them to me over the phone; I had to go in and see Dr. Annoying again.
“Good to see you again, Ms. Cabana,” Dr. Goldberg said as he sat on his little rolly stool and scooted over to greet me.
“Hello, Dr. Silverstein. So you have my results?”
“Yes.”
“Great. What do you got for me?”
“Well, your hormone levels are pretty normal for the most part. But I did find one thing that I need to inform you about.”
I took a deep breath and readied myself to hear about how I had a hormone imbalance that was making me edgy, but worse . . . also giving me cancer.
“Your FSH levels are very low.”
“Whoa,” I said as I took another deep breath. “What’s an FSH level?”
“Well, that’s your fertility hormone. It means that you have a very low chance of being able to get pregnant.”
“Oh!” I said, relieved. “Okay. So when those levels are low do women tend to get more mood swings?”
“Not that I’m aware of, it simply indicates that if you want to get pregnant, you probably cannot.”
“Well, that’s okay because I don’t want to get pregnant. What else did you find? There must be a reason why I’m so mean to people, particularly ones who are in front of me in line at the Coffee Bean.”
“I don’t think you understand. You have about a two percent chance of getting pregnant.”
“Is there a way to make it zero percent?” I asked, not at all joking.
“This is something you need to understand. If you decide you want children—”
“I don’t want children.”
“But if you change your mind—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Women say that but then they often change their minds, and I’m telling you that you would be unable to—”
“Doctor? I get it. It’s fine.”
“But, Ms. Carson—”
“It’s Colonna. My last name is Colonna. I’ve told you that no less than eighty times.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Colonna,” he repeated slowly and carefully. “This news appears to have upset you. Would you like some time alone to process the fact that your body may not ever be able to give you a child?”
“The news hasn’t upset me, you’ve upset me.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“I told you I understand. And you keep trying to tell me you know better than I do how I feel about children. Here’s the thing: I just don’t want kids. It doesn’t make me weird, it doesn’t mean that I don’t like kids or that I want to punch them. Although I did recently see a baby who had his own seat in first class and I did want to punch him a little on my way to my economy seat right next to the lavatory.”
“You seem on edge.”
“Am I on a hidden-camera show? The edginess is the reason I’m here in the first place. I don’t need you to tell me anything except what’s on that piece of paper. I am not trying to get pregnant, ever. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying not to get pregnant. In fact, sometimes after sex, I turn on my blow-dryer and hold it right up to my vagina because when I was in high school, Kristy Stewart told me that can keep you from getting pregnant. I’m thirty-eight years old and that’s still my move. Understand?”
“Not really,” he said.
“I know you don’t. And I don’t expect you to. But let me just give you a piece of advice: if you’re going to try to make a woman feel bad about the status of her ovaries, at least have the decency to get her fucking name right.”
With that, I stormed out of the office, past the still-packing receptionist, and out the front door.
Three seconds later, I walked right back in to find the doctor still sitting in the exam room, looking bewildered.
“Can I still get some of those diet pills?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not overweight enough for diet pills,” he replied.
I stared at him for a minute, then smiled. “That’s more like it, Doctor. That’s how you talk to a woman.”
Called Up to the Majors
Due to my love for baseball, I’ve always dreamed of becoming a baseball wife. Now that I’m in my thirties and a little smarter, I realize that may not turn out so great for me . . . or for anyone who wants a husband who doesn’t bang a bunch of other women when he’s on the road. Yes, I know there are a few good ones who don’t do that—I’m generalizing here—but based on my past choices, I’m being realistic about which type I’d be drawn to; unfortunately, I doubt it would be one of the “good ones.”
So aside from funny people and friends, I follow a handful of baseball players on Twitter. Social media has opened a whole new world in communication with complete strangers. It’s not something that my friends and I had to deal with when we were in high school and college, thank God. But now, social media is prevalent in everyone’s life, young and old. Facebook is where everyone goes to spy on and judge people we haven’t seen in years, or scope out photos on a new love interest’s page to determine if there is any stiff competition lingering around. There are apps like Tinder where people go to “meet other people,” which really means “fuck other people,” because what kind of relationship is really going to start with a swipe to the right? And Twitter is just a whole big combination of it all, with the added bonus that for networking, it’s a sea of opportunity.
I interact with Twitter followers more than anyone I know, perhaps to a fault. When I dare take a vacation, or, God forbid, go out to dinner and refuse to look at my phone, some followers yell at me for “ignoring” them. I even respond to those people later, defending my right to stay off my phone for hours at a time, which is totally counterproductive. But I’ve built my Twitter bed, so I have to tweet in it.
The communication goes further than that, though. People who don’t know each other follow each other and start sending direct messages back and forth. I’ve become friendly with funny women like Kelly Oxford and Jenny Johnson this way. But it’s a “club” of sorts. We know each other’s work, but we’ve never met, so we just direct-message (DM) and boom, now we are social-media buddies. It’s all very intimate.
Single men follow hot women in hopes of this same result. Single women follow hot men for that reason, too. Of course, sometimes married men and women follow other attractive men or women, because said people are “funny” or “informative,” but really they’re hoping for a weird Internet affair. It happens.
Combining my love of baseball and my appreciation for social media, one day I decided to send a nice little tweet to one of the baseball players I follow, letting him know that he was one of my favorites. I didn’t really think he’d respond, but I figured it never sucks to hear someone thinks you’re awesome, right? A little later he sent me a direct message saying, “Thank you! I like your work!” Please keep in mind that you can only direct-message people when you follow each other, which meant he was now following me on Twitter. This was back in the earlier days of Twitter when pretty much nobody else was following me. You guys, this was exciting! Also, I need a life.
I got pretty worked up that Baseball Player had mess
aged me, and by “worked up,” I mean “horny.” The timing of the tweet couldn’t have been better; it was the night before opening day of baseball season. I was at a bar at the time (shocking, I know) and immediately showed the message to my friend Chris. He got equally excited for me, as he’d also like to see me with a boyfriend in the MLB (he figures through me he could get hooked up with decent seats), so we carefully constructed my response. It was something along the lines of: “Thank you so much!!! Happy opening day tomorrow!” Sadly, it took us like two hours to construct it; we weren’t all that sober.
The next day, I was on my way down to the Angels game with two of my girlfriends, Tara and Stephanie. They were also very, very worked up about my newfound friendship with Baseball Player, and by “worked up,” I still mean “horny.”
We were en route when I got a response from Baseball Player. I read it to the girls: “It says ‘Thank You’ and there’s a smiley face.”
The smiley face threw me off at first since he’s a man and a professional athlete, but I’ve since reconciled with the fact that everyone loves emoticons, even grown men . . . in fact, now I do, too. I can’t even bring myself to think about what life would be like without emoticons.
“A smiley face? But he’s a professional baseball player!” Tara noted.
“Maybe he’s an emotional one,” I said, defending him.
“Smiley face or not, you need to give him your phone number,” Stephanie demanded.
“I agree, but you can’t just send your phone number out to the world!” Tara chimed in.
“She won’t send it to the world, Tara, she can DM it to him. He follows her!”
“What’s a DM?” Tara asked.
Stephanie rolled her eyes. Poor Tara, she is such a normal, non-social-media-obsessed person.
“It means I can send him a private message and nobody else will see it,” I explained.
“That’s amazing. What’s a private message?” Tara asked.
“We don’t have time to walk through all the mechanics of this for you, Tara, let’s just get him Sarah’s phone number, okay?”
Has Anyone Seen My Pants? Page 5
