Waiting Room Woes

In our iPhone-filled, MP3-sharing world, I'm constantly amazed at how much we can get done from our laptops: bill paying, ancestry research, relationship-making, grocery shopping, arson, revenge of the sweetest kinds, etc.  But, I am most amazed when I learn of those tasks which cannot be done with twenty-first century technology. Can you think of any? Teleporting, giving birth, ordering a Slurpee®.

Having visited a couple of doctors recently (both tall, Jewish, with wonderful senses of humor, but not single), I was intrigued. While this post is not about the consistency of doctor's offices, I must write that it would be nice if we actually knew what to expect there.  Sometimes I'm humiliated by getting on the scale, even for a fucking eye infection!  Other times, I just breeze on through while the judgmental bitch nurse simply guesses my weight.  I wouldn't mind being weighed provided that they'd compensate me by giving me drugs that would warrant taking my weight.

Anyway, the point of the digression was to mention that the doctor's office is a lot like those machine-bastards into which you swipe your credit card at the grocery store at the register.   Just how many models of these bloody machines are there in existence?!?  And, they're all different!  These are pretty important machines! They charge us, using bank information, mothers' maiden names and shit, only to confuse us the moment that we approach them! Of all the things to produce inconsistently, why these? Of all the places to be kept on your toes, why the doctor's office?

But, as I typed before, I digress. Once I learned that I had to give up some blood, I eased out of the hyperventilation and into the chair of penetration wherein a needle was forced into my limb, extracting the very life force that I was seeking to preserve by coming to the doctor. And, then amazement fell over my thin self: why can't we, Americans, a people of innovation, of Diet Coke, and of liposuction, find another less barbaric method of extraction these life juices?!? We've put bastards on the moon for Christ's sake! How about helping out the rest of us?!?  Must they still puncture us like druggies?!?  Couldn't they just take a picture of you and, by extension, see the blood?!? SOMETHING!

This may sound juvenile (and I am very young), but it does really bother me. This is one of the primary reasons for which I stay away from the doctor's office. If I'm going to see a doctor, I prefer that he be sitting across from me at dinner. Other times, the doctors and their minions just want to know the most private details of my high-profile existence: my weight, past medical "issues," what other drugs I'm taking, how often I exercise, etc.  What ever happened to dinner and drinks before any of that info is disclosed?!?

Then there's the mutha' of all NOYB (none of yo bizzness) questions! Those nosey, triffling medical people want to know about sex. Who you doing? AND, how often? But the most brilliant part of all this is the range of choices they give you: yes or no! Oh, ho ho ... if only it were that simple! They should know better than that. At the very least, there should be a third option for the question of sexual frequency: in a relationship.  Not that I'm complaining; it's the natural course of things, I would argue, for which I'm extremely grateful.

Overall, I may have suffered more stress from the doctor's visit alone.  Waiting for the results of my blood work, ironically, had my blood pressure as high as it when I have to pay retail for something.  All ending well, I feel less horrible about putting off the doctor visits for as long as I did.  What came of it?  It all went exactly what I expected, no surprises.  In that sense, it was better than a date, except that I didn't walk away with a doctor.  You win some, and you lose some.