Anyway, I had been seeing this doctor since I was about nine (though we were free to see other people), and on this particular visit I was going to beg him for some brand new diet pills that were turning chubby patients everywhere into really thin people with a penchant for vaccuming at 2:00 a.m. I had tried everything to lose the few extra pounds that I felt were preventing my white knight from knocking down my door and ravashing me in restless abandon (although I did have a pretty sturdy door, so that may have been it also) and so I asked him what he thought of this phen-phen; before I could swipe the extra prescription pad off his counter he gave me some samples and sent me on my way. The turmoil my loved ones suffered when I began these pills is for another time, another post. But let’s just say I became less person and more rabid raccoon. Of course, let’s also not lose sight of the fact that I looked freakin hot. Which apparently my doctor appreciated, because the next time I came in to see him, he hit on me while swabbing my tonsils and asked me out on a date I was feeling vulnerable and also there was a five-inch Q-tip down my throat, so I said “dkghtlllyt;lthh” which he misunderstood for “sounds great!” So we made dinner plans, and the bastard still charged me my co-pay.
Weeks later he took me to a pharmacuetical convention at a super swanky restaraunt and suggested that if people asked I tell them that we met at the stain glass class he taught at the local community college on the weekends. The whole experience was really strange and if I remember correctly, I told him I was going to go to the bathroom, called someone who wasn’t old enough to be my father to come pick me up, and got the hell out of there. I may or may not have swiped a bag of stool softners and eczema cream samples on my way out.
This ended up being the same doctor who, when my mom sent my sixteen year old sister to get bloodwork done and she freaked out and didn’t want to, took a red marker to a cotton ball, stuck it on her arm with a band aid, and told her to go home. True story.
I tell ya.
Nothing like an obtrusive memory about the time your horny little doctor tried to give you a “check-up” after- hours to start your morning off right.
Whatever happened to Folgers?