An unfortunately skinny woman (meaning it was very unfortunate that she is skinny and I am not) with sad eyes led me to a "dressing room" and directed me to gown up and subsequently make my way to the "patient lounge". Patient lounge? In my head, my gowned peers and I enjoyed a leisurely smoke, sharing some quiet laughs over our drinks. In reality, it was a smaller version of the waiting room with a phone. And my only companion, a middle aged woman who had selected the beige gown rather than the grey (grey's in now, FYI), was too busy sealing and resealing the plastic bag that held her "personal effects" to make idle lounge talk with me.
After I'd seen el doctoro, I was essentially abandoned in the exam room. After several minutes, I de-gowned and peeked my head outside. Fuck, humorless skinny girl again. But I did my best. "So uh, should i just cut outta here or swing back by the patient lounge for a cig??" "Ms. Garcia, you can follow the corridor to the right back to the reception area."
Is that how people talk in doctor offices now? When I was growing up, my doctor was my friend Nagrom's dad. This meant my doctor visits usually started off with something like, "Yo yo, Doctah Bill, how's it hanging, thug???" After he'd finished interrogating me about his dwindling liquor supply at his house, he'd get down to non-medicating me and prescribed only that I stop skipping Tech Discovery class for mysterious ailments that disappeared by 5th period.
This was the same doctor who, after his daughter and I were BUSTED skipping class, refused to write us notes and instead allowed us to languish in In-School-Suspension for a whole day.
N-E-Way ... I never know how to end these things. So - The End.