Tools of the Trade

Re-entry to work the next day is painful. Such things are always a challenge. The only plus is that I get to prance into the office in the gloom of February with a savage tan and sun kissed highlights.

And as if work isn't fun enough, I also have my blahblahblah procedure scheduled with Dr. Madre. Talk about a total buzz kill.

I go to the office at the appointed hour and strip from the waist down, hop up on the table and cover myself with the sheet. I look around. I examine the socks I'd worn with my boots to make sure they won't inspire a negative repulsed reaction by their sight in the stirrups. Good to go. I take fleeting notice of all the alarmingly sharp and lengthy instruments on the cart, but quickly avert my eyes. Don't need to see all that and imagine what it will all be doing.

Next to the cart there is an ancient looking piece of equipment to the left of all the other gizmos. Frankly, it looks like a toaster with a couple of additional knobs. But from the 60s. Or Lost In Space. Danger! Danger! I am praying that it is just a decorative antique and will not be pressed into service in my appointment.

But it is a curious little thing - with long cords. One of which is attached to a little pedal thing sitting on the floor. Like a sewing machine pedal.

I am wigging now. I am sure this ancient decrepit machine is meant for me. And it will require exceptional hand/eye/foot coordination. Like sewing. And I am recalling my first attempt at curtains.

O.
M.
G.

I am wondering if it is too late to change my mind. Can I still choose the every three month exam deal, Carol Merrill? Is there a door number three? I am tempted to run away and call from the elevator.

I am about to hop off the table and run out into the street with my pants and shoes in my arms. And at that moment Dr. Madre arrives.

No escaping now.