I had to go to the doctor last week. It was nothing major, but I kind of hate going to the doctor by myself. By that I actually mean that I hate going to the doctor without my mom. I’m terrified of them looking at my chart and saying, “Btw, you’re dying.”
I was hoping that my doctor would be as cool and well-dressed as Mindy Kaling, and we would hit it off and become best friends, and I could just call her up with any medical question instead of consulting Web MD. (Because Web MD is always like, “Btw, you may or may not be dying.”)
Of course we were late, so I had to rush through filling out my new patient forms. Filling out any sort of form is enough stress to make me break out in hives, but I dealt with it as best I could. My best friend Dr. Mindy and I would totally laugh about it during my exam. “You couldn’t fill out the forms? Don’t even worry about it!”
A lady came to get me from the waiting room, and I thought, “Are you my doctor? Are we best friends yet?!” She was not my doctor. Another lady in scrubs weighed me ( rude : ( ) and measured my heigh, and I did not think, “Are you my doctor? Are we best friends yet?!” Because best friends don’t weigh you. Needless to say, she was not my doctor either. She took me into an exam room, and I read a water-stained magazine for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, a lady wearing a stethoscope came in, and I didn’t even have to ask. I knew she was my doctor.
She was very matter-of-fact, and did not frown when I giggled as she asked me certain questions that I’m still not used to answering. Our friendship was off to a great start.
After my exam, she told me to call her if I had any questions. I’m sure she didn’t just mean medical questions, but also meant that I could call her if I ever needed any fashion advice. Best friends.
Btw, I’m not dying.