Blog

Bad experiences.

We all have them at one time or another. They generally tell us how flawed we are or how absurd people around us are.

I had one of those bad experiences yesterday.

I accompanied my wife to a gynecologist’s office.  She was there to have an in office procedure done for a “female problem.” I’ve learned over time, especially as we’ve aged, not to explore much beyond that definition.

The doctor’s office had a small waiting room with three chairs, and a 2021 edition of Vogue Magazine. Of course, silly me, I picked the magazine up to thumb through it. I’ve never met a Vogue in my entire life although I’ve known my fair share of Rogues.

Anyway, I did not recognize the name of a single person in the magazine—and the people I saw seemed to be rather pretentious in both dress and personal manner. I certainly would not be seen in public with some of the clothes those folks had on. I was embarrassed for them.

And, worse yet, those ads. I did not recognize, much less be able to pronounce, any of the products (from jewelry to perfume) featured in the magazine. Take that back, there was one Geico ad, but even it did not feature the Lizard.

Somehow, boredom forced me to turn each page from cover to cover as I fought down the urge to scratch (or pick) my nose begging for hand relief.

And then there were those women—all of whom had “female problems,” some of which were either caused by or contributed to by men—with their furrowed brow looks and uncomfortable body language. I had to fight down the almost irresistible impulse to stand and shout:

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry I’m a fucking man but whatever “female problem” my wife was NOT caused by me. Forgive me if I must stand to pee while you are forced to sit to pee. Take that grievance up with someone with more power than me. Okay, okay, just please forgive me for being a man and not being here for a ‘procedure.’”

And one lady came in wearing yellow tennis shoes no less. I didn’t hold that against her. I stood up and gave her my chair and pointed to that goddamn 2021 Vogue Magazine.

And then it happened.

Tummy started acting like a real beast. Each morning I feed the little sonuvabitch a banana, a whole glass of chocolate milk, and a vitamin B-12 tablet. That will generally pacify the little demon until 11:00 a.m. when I am more generous with the calorie intake.

But the wife’s appointment was for 11:15. I figured Tummy could relax until the procedure was over and we could stop at the local Wendy’s for a burger, those good Wendy fries, and a large coke before heading home. That would satisfy Tummy until we got home where a 30-minute afternoon nap awaited us.

But no that little monster was having nothing to do with those well thought out plans. Between 11:30 and quarter of twelve, Tummy started its growling routine—sort of low pleading at first around 11:30 but thoroughly pissed off full-throttle growling shortly before noon.

And, yes, the stares from those three women, especially the yellow tennis shoes lady, became more penetrating, refusing to conceal their collective disgust. Not only was I a man on sacred turf, the only damn “male problem” I had was a fucking Tummy in open rebellion. Those damn stares and body twitching in the chairs almost made me wish I was back in prison.

And then there she was, walking out of the back area where they do all those “female procedures” into the waiting room. I wanted to just rush up, pick her up, and shout above those hostile glares, “thank God, thank God – we’re free to go. The feeling was almost as sensational as walking out of prison.”

I once again fought down an irresistible impulse to say before leaving the lobby area, “fuck y’all … it’s my Tummy and it will growl if it wants to.”

But I was civilized – I just took a cowardly, hasty retreat out the door.”

And we did not stop at Wendy’s to get those damn fries. I told wife:

“Home, Jane … I will eat that leftover shrimp fried in the fridge. Fucking little Tummy ain’t gonna get those fries today,”

Now, that is what you call a “bad experience.”