Going in for Maintenance

When I got to the gym yesterday I noticed I was wearing two completely different shoes. I didn’t want everyone to notice how absent minded I am so proceeded to limp through my workout in a lame attempt to make it look like one of my shoes was a special orthodic that I was wearing due to an injury. But I’m not that good a limper and I might have been changing which foot I was limping on so I am not sure how convincing I was. When the trainer asked me if I needed any help I told him my orthopedist said I was doing really well and might be able to put on regular shoes as early as tomorrow, and then limped my way to the handicap ramp, all of a sudden realizing that I had missed out on the one opportunity I might have had to park in the handicapped spot right in front of the building.

I suppose my faux pas was merely a harbinger of the day ahead of me, which was ripe with adventure: a trip back to the breast center for a sonogram and to the dentist for x-rays. By the end of the day I’d be lucky if I didn’t have my underpants on where my bra should be to go with my mismatched shoes. I know some people don’t mind going to the dentist, and I remember a time back in my youth when I would get a coupon for the ice cream shop downstairs if I had a good checkup, and man those were the days. These days, not only don’t I get a coupon for ice cream or even a lollypop like I used to get at the bank, only a big fat bill for a retainer-type of implement that is supposed to stop me from clenching my teeth in my sleep, which makes my gums recede which, in turn makes the cleanings uncomfortable and my chicklet-sized teeth look even bigger. The reality is that this “mouth guard” does not keep me from clenching my teeth, just prevents the clenching from affecting my gums. Which doesn’t really solve the whole problem, as the clenching also gives me jaw pain significant enough to keep me from enjoying hard, chewy candy (doesn’t keep me from eating it, just from enjoying it), not to mention headaches. But as my dentist was kind enough to note, he is not a psychiatrist, and the root of my clenching is not really his problem. “Try reducing your stress,” was his advice. Genius. If only I had thought of that myself. “Well,” I told him, “it would really help if you had tequila in that little cup you tell me to rinse with, instead of stupid mouthwash.” But since he had both of his hands in my mouth at the time I’m not sure I was coherent.

Which leads me to mention my favorite part of visiting the dentist: hands down, the xrays, as I have an extremely sensitive gag reflex. It’s a wonder I can feed myself, as I can’t even put a pencil between my teeth for more than a couple of seconds without gagging. Perhaps you can imagine what certain sex acts I’m also inefficient at, but as I’ve always said, there is a reason God gave me a bad gag (or is it a good gag?) reflex and I’m pretty sure that was it. I also think he knew that my teeth would remain relatively cavity-free for most of my life except for that medieval period when Maverick and I had no money, no insurance and didn’t step foot near a dentist or a piece of floss for four years, until I had a tooth ache that could wake the dead, and resulted in a nasty root canal. Nonetheless, as long as they insist on xrays, I will continue to repay them in kind by gagging and making them worry that I might actually vomit on the rubber blanket that is protecting my innards from cancer-causing xrays.

But we all can probably agree, that compared to a mammogram, a dental cleaning is a walk in the park! First of all, men, let’s be clear on one thing: having your prostate exam is nothing like a pelvic exam, let alone a mammo.  There’s something special about having your AA cup breast (for those who don’t understand exactly how small that is, it’s about a 1/4 cup non-metric measure) squished between two clear glass plates (in case you want to see how hideous it looks) to the size of a platter large enough to hold a 9 inch pie with a lovely garnish around the edges.  This does require that part of your neck ends up between those plates as well, which is not only painful, but can not be good for a neck that is just starting to lose it’s elasticity. If you are lucky, like me, two images on each side are not enough, and I go for the “buy one, get one free” except I don’t get any free they are all really expensive. And usually for additional kicks I go for the sonogram during which I try to imagine I am at a spa getting a very special massage that isn’t that relaxing or comfortable, and they don’t play special music of forest sounds or ocean waves or whale calls, but there is a robe to put back on when we’re done.  The robe is not as fancy as a spa robe, but it is a robe after all and as long as nobody has stolen your clothes out of the locker you put them in that doesn’t actually lock, so you might as well have left them in the waiting room on a chair, you can’t wear it home.  Which is a shame because by now you’ve done a pretty good job of perspiring all over it, since you were told not to wear any deodorant or antiperspirant because that would mess up the imaging and then you’d have to go back yet again.  And too many visits to the spa in one month is just too extravagant for D. Parker.

So I dump the robe and finally find my clothes in a locker that doesn’t lock and also doesn’t have a number on it, but thank goodness there’s no doubt that tiny AA bra is mine. For good measure I check to make sure that my underpants are on my bottom as I put my bra on my top, I stick my shoes back on the wrong feet and limp my way out of the Breast Center, straight to my car which I left parked in the handicapped spot.