I used to hate going to the doctor. Then I became a “happy homemaker.” I look forward to such appointments now to the point that I cross out the days on the calendar in giddy anticipation of having my annual pap done. A nice quiet drive alone in the car (no van), a quiet waiting room (“What? You’re running an hour behind? No worries. Take your time. Seriously. I’m good.”), no kids, no noise, just me and the perfect stranger in a white coat asking me politely to scoot down a little bit farther on the examination table. “Whatever floats your boat doc, I’m on vacation.”
If it wasn’t for the check-in process, I would find a reason to go to the doctor every week.
It’s always the same series of events. A very nice lady sitting behind her desk asking me for my insurance card and photo ID. Inevitably and like clockwork, she always follows it up with the same question. It never fails.
“And are you currently working Jill?”
Seriously? Why do you need to know that? I mean besides the fact that you need to check some sort of box on your ridiculous medical form. Why does it matter? Is there some sort of a VIP waiting room with fresh fruit and chair massages for people that work? Or do you just like asking that question with that stupid smile on your face to see how people like me respond?
After a few deep breaths, my response is always the same, “No.” And then the arrogant bitch behind the desk proceeds to click her little box and very gently tells me to please take a seat. Does she actually feel sorry for me now? I am seriously going to kick her ass.
Why don’t I just answer “yes” and be done with it?
Because I am not an idiot, that’s why. I know that saying “yes” would only set off a cascade of scripted follow-up questions surrounding what I do for a living. No matter how I spin it (“I am a homemaker, I am a stay at home mom, I am a domestic goddess”), it all sounds the same and will inevitably provoke the same response. A sympathy look and a quiet head nod, “Okay honey, go ahead and take a seat.”
“F*@k you lady behind the desk! I have a job. I don’t get paid for it and most days it doesn’t require me to even get out of my sweatpants and/or put on a bra, but don’t kid yourself girlfriend, I work! Do you have a “box” for that?”
Sure, I could choose to be “that mom” who has to proclaim to the world that my job is harder than most and try to convince everyone and their cat that I deserve some sort of a biscuit for my efforts.
Ugh. I don’t have the energy for it. Nor do I believe I deserve a biscuit. I just don’t want to be asked that stupid f*@king question every time I have a doctor’s appointment.
It makes me feel bad about myself. STOP ASKING IT!