I tend to procrastinate my lady issues. I think, it’s self-cleaning; I’ll eat yogurt, drink cranberry juice and it’ll just heal itself.
This is why I end up popping pills and dialing for a local Lady Doctor to let me into her schedule. Now that I’m not a student, I went to the employee health center hoping they could fix me up like the student health center has done for the last six years.
“Are you telling me you can’t help me and even though I know that were I a student, nary five blocks over, someone could have me in stirrups, do some lab work, and send me on my way munching some antibiotics in a half hour…but… you guys here can’t?”
“Yes. Call a real doctor. Oh, and that’ll be five dollars.”
The next day I stood in an elevator, third floor – lady issues. There were large windows and everything was gun metal gray. There was a waiting room exclusively for adults, but the hacking from that room made me back away away to instead sit next to the fish tank eyeballing the mewing newborn baby in the room.
It was efficient office and I was being handled by the nurse who asked the usual questions. Am I active, that’s…well, in general, but not recently. She looked at me but continued to, “Have there been any major life events? New job, new boyfriend, old boyfriend…”
“There is an ex now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I pause. “No, you know, I think it is a good thing.”
She looks at me brightly, “Well if you’re happy then I’m happy for you.” She looks back at the screen, “That does, though, explain the last answer.”
Before I knew it I was being handled by a very nearly overly made up skinny and elderly Southern woman. She mentions the note of the breakup taken by the nurse. Still being, er, processed, she lays a hand on leg, peers around my faux paper towel curtain, and says, “How are you feeling about the breakup?”
Gee lady, you’ve got me where you want me, “I’m, uh…”
“Do you think you might do well with…counseling?”
I was genuinely touched [Aaaah, not intended. Honest.] and thought about it for a second. “No, I think I’m good actually.”
She continued, “Sometimes the head and the heart doesn’t always agree…Do you have family, good friends to talk to?”
I give a little nod, “Yes, yes I do.”
It’s true. While I have heartache, insecurities, and debates about the waste of time and effort, there is some genuine relief that I’m not talking myself into. As I rode home and the sun set I realized that I hadn’t been spending time needlessly worrying about “making plans” and mentally bitching about why was I making all the plans anyhow. I shimmied a bit on road and let the orange glow float around me.
Not to say I don’t have mini setbacks. Like tonight. But I do have those friends.
“Why does he not love me,” I semi jokingly, semi seriously, mostly whiningly drawl while scrubbing a pan.
Not looking up from his mp3 player, J replys, “Because he’s a douchebag.”
I scrub harder. “But whhhhhhhhy.”
I see him look up at me from the corner for my eye and stare at me quizzically, “It’s something he was born with?”