Some things I live are pretty sad. They come in waves that leave irresolution in my soul like soap scum- hard to remove. Today I did several sad things, but found that the line between sad and hysterically funny is rather thin and colorless. Maybe that line is called awkward. Like peeing in a cup twice in one day at TWO different doctor's offices because, "Ma'am your urine just seems off." Well... Thanks. Put it like that and suddenly I feel like I need to apologize.
So I did.
One of these times I was told to carry my urine in a plastic bag from the clinic to the public restroom at the other end of the store. The act of carrying my pee in a translucent jar in a public place was so mortifying to me that I contracted a small fever as I half-galloped, half-walked in order to maintain a calm but quick sample. Next thing I knew, my fever and my funny pee had me on the way to urgent care.
Now I know it was urgent, but I visited McDonalds in between doctor's visits so that my stomach didn't make an ugly, hungry, gurgling sound when the doctor pressed on it during examination. Of course I was sure this was going to happen, and though I don't normally like McDonald's I pulled up to the window and ordered the item that was least likely to kill me. When the woman tried to hand it over, I off course was shaking violently from carrying my pee in public and immediately dropped the entire thing on the ground. No exaggeration, it literally exploded on the pavement and I was faced with that awkward moment of trying to shove one leg out of my barely open-able car door as she apologized profusely. "It's me," I finally said, as I was bent over scraping mayonnaise soaked lettuce off the concrete, "I'm sick." After that I just got in, put the car in drive and drove away.
Don't get me wrong, I like doctors, but I'm not crazy about them. Today, after I was questioned by two people about my mysterious illness which included several elderly-like symptoms I won't mention, the doctor moved in. He kept his voice low, as if we were sitting next to each other during communion and I ought to be whispering. Then of all the crazy things to do, he positioned himself six inches from my face and asked me to re-state my symptoms. I'd had it. I'm not 76, there are actually rules about how many times I can talk about pee in one day. And this is not the hallmark channel, I can't do it with a morose face and puppy-dog eyes. Now that we were really getting personal my face was flushing all shades of pink and every single one of my teeth were gleaming in his face, which was by the way, deadpan. Try smiling as big as you can six inches from your computer screen while describing your urine. Yes. It was like that exactly, and just as quiet on the other side. When his long list of possible solutions suddenly included the words "pelvic exam," I got myself right off that crinkle table and put my arms through the sleeves of my coat. "I'll take the pills," I told him as I tied the belt around my waste in three tight knots... "I probably just have weird pee."
After that I went to my car and sat there for a long time. My heart was pounding and I felt like I needed to regain some trace of dignity. I tilted the rearview mirror and applied some lipstick. With a red mouth I looked right into my own eyes and said, "You're smart. You have great pee, and you're very, very dignified." That was that. Insta-confidence. Of course as I backed out of the parking lot I saw that the Toyota next to me, packed full of elderly gentleman, had witnessed the entire thing. I should have cried. Instead I turned on rap.
I hope they read my lips.