I have been training for a marathon. I tore my left arch and have now downgraded to a half-marathon.
Today was my second visit with my podiatrist...a young, witty, cute, single podiatrist.
I arrive at his office and he opens the door. My eyes widen, "Wow, he is much cuter than I remembered!" He has me come into the room while he finishes his last patient's report. We chat and catch up on each other's weekend. I tease him that he really is exchanging on IM and not working on his last patient's record. We exchange more banter, in an effort to pry into each other's lives. I tell him about a party that I went to last week at The Box. He tells me about the screening he is attending tonight at the Soho House. He inches closer to me on his wheelie chair and reaches out with his latex-laden hands.
"Alright, lets take a look at your feet. Oh, can you get my ex-girlfriend a job?"
I laugh, "You want ME to get your ex-girlfriend a job? Why are you still trying to employ your ex?"
He laughs with my feet in hand and tells me they are good friends. She is in fashion. He asks for my contact info to help her out. I offer him my business card in hopes of an indirect approach to a date.
I tell him my foot is still in pain, despite the stretches and icing he instructed me to do two weeks ago. He takes a look, applies pressure, and approaches a cabinet. He opens it and out comes the most RIDICULOUS contraption...a MOON BOOT!.
I immediately digress to MO-THE-FIVE-YEAR-OLD.
"WHAT IS THAT? I AM NOT GOING TO WEAR THAT! THAT THING IS UGLY!" I tantrum.
"It is a night splint. Ideally, you should wear it while you sleep."
I roll my eyes and shake my head "no."
"I am only requiring that you wear it two hours a night while you are watching TV or are on the computer."
"OH, NO I AM NOT WEARING THAT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" I exert while stomping my fists into the chair.
I immediately think, "I don't have room for that! Where am I going to fit it in my tiny apartment?"
He straps me into the ugly, wannabe, snowboard boot as I sit there shaking my head, as if my whole world has fallen apart.
"Fine!" He takes off the boot, grabs a Sharpie, and draws my employer's fashion label on the back. "Now will you wear it?"
"NO! THIS IS RETARDED!"
He tells me to consider physical therapy.
Tantrum Part Two...
WHAT? PHYSICAL THERAPY?"
"Yes, I don't know if you will want to fit that in."
"PHYSICAL THERAPY? WHAT DOES IT CONSIST OF?" I fume.
He mocks, "It CONSISTS of my girls working on you!"
I thrust my hands in the air, "BASTA! THIS IS SO RETARDED!"
He looks at me with all amusement. Little did he know that he would be a pediatrician today.
I shake my head and pout, looking down at my foot bound in a 45 degree angle by velcro straps, pulling away all my vanity.
"I don't think you need it, but would you like me to ease the pain with a steroid shot?"
Tantrum Part Three...
"NO! I DON'T NEED A SHOT!" I exclaim, exhausted from the drain of my narcissism.
At six months old, I would scream if I saw anyone dressed in all white. Needless to say, I feared needles when I was young. I once bent the needle with my ass from being so tense, and then found pure pleasure in pissing off the nurse by my muscular feat. I told her I didn't want it.
After that incident, I decided I will survive on charm alone. Oh, did I turn it on. It was pure success. I charmed my way out of every shot. "Oh doctor, must you do that? Surely, there must be some medicine you can give me that would do the same thing," Bat the eyelashes. It worked every time.
Obviously, I didn't apply that method today. I charmed, then fitted. Dyslexic.
I pay my copay. He walks out to say goodbye, "It was really good seeing you today. See you at Soho House tonight." Wink.
Yeah, right. I've got a foot to bind for my concubine walk on the moon. My nickname at work is now Heather Mills.