The seasons passed. The calendar pages kept flipping. And soon, I could put it off no longer.
It was time for the Yearly Violation. (Go ahead, call it a “complete physical”. Semantics will not diminish the horror.)
I wasn’t looking forward to it, beyond the obvious reasons.
Because lately, I’ve felt like my doctor just isn’t that into me. At first, it was little things. One hand on the doorknob, in a subtle “wrap it up” gesture. The eye contact was next to go, with him preferring to look at my file on the computer screen than talk to me. But it was when he quit laughing at my jokes that I knew the end was nigh. Because god dammit, I produce some of my best humor in awkward and drafty situations. And if he couldn’t pick up what I was putting down, clearly it was time to move on.
Our last time together was on a chilly Thursday morning. I have to admit, my heart wasn’t in it anymore. I knew this was The Big Appointment. And yet, I failed to do the necessary, um, maintenance. Didn’t even bother shaving my legs. Dispensed with small talk during the breast exam. Barely winced at the unwarmed instruments. Just generally phoned it in.
I think he sensed I was pulling away, that there was no saving “us”. I can only assume that’s why when I told him I’d been having chest pains, he shrugged.
That’s it. Shrugged.
If we were a couple breaking up, I’m pretty sure that would have been where he told me I was lousy in bed and that he’d always liked my friend better.
So this is how we end, Dr. C. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
And this? Take a good look, because you won’t get to see this on a yearly basis, anymore:
(I’m actually surprised we lasted as long as we did. Cheap bastard never did spring for the one-piece gowns.)