Paper & Cuts
I used to subscribe to more magazines than anyone I knew. All that changed a few weeks ago when I put my wine glass down on top of a stack of unread magazines creating an avalanche and spilling wine all over all of my tax documents. As I sucked the last drops of Shiraz out of my receipts, I swore that I would not be renewing all of my subscriptions. I also swore to start drinking wine from a cup with a lid.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with the gynecologist. Ordinarily, I am not impressed with the magazines at her office, but due to my recent decision to cancel my subscriptions, I was happy to sit in the waiting room and pour through magazines so old that the perfume samples had all been rubbed onto the wrists of other patients.
As other women arrived, I found myself feeling territorial over the magazines featuring what to wear last fall and how to get the best beach hair. I hoarded a pile of magazines. I ignored the nasty looks of the women in the waiting room. I gestured to the nurse behind the desk. I wanted her to keep an eye on everyone in the event that they staged an uprising. I discarded an old Newsweek onto the table to distract the masses.
Finally, the nurse called out, "Ms. Mist." I scooped up the magazines and brought them back with me. I followed her down the hallway and stepped onto the scale. "Ms. Mist, I'm going to have to ask you to put those magazines down while I weigh you." The nurses know that I don't take off my shoes to be weighed. They don't even ask anymore. I calmly told her that by my precise estimation, she should subtract six pounds to compensate for the additional paper weight.
She left me in the room to change. I kept my shirt on because it was chilly, but I stripped from the waist down and draped the paper sheet over my lap. I sat on the end of the examining table and continued to read about what drives men wild in bed.
The February 2003 issue of Elle slipped from my lap and landed on the floor. I leaned over to grab it. I slipped. I plunged face first off the table, still clutching a stack of magazines. I caught myself with my jaw on the stirrup. I dangled there, with my bare a$$ and everything else in the air for a moment trying to catch my breath. That's when the doctor walked in with a student.
My doctor helped me back onto the table while the student picked up the magazine. I didn't snap at her even though she had lost my page.
After the exam, my doctor smiled and said, "everything checked out okay, now let's take a look at your jaw."
It's not the first time I've left the doctor with a sore jaw, but usually there's anesthesia and a subsequent law suit involved.