I am so fucking hot. Hotter than any Kool and the Gang or Buster Poindexter song, hotter than that indescribably lame socialite and her trite co-opting of the word itself, hotter than July, hotter than a Naga Viper Pepper, hotter than straddling two white Jaguars in a negligee circa 1987. I am so god damned hot that I can barely stand myself, and I may a stay this way for another decade.
According to the experts, I might have gotten off the fertility bus a tad early and decided to walk slowly down Perimenopausal Place, strolling along toward the inevitable hairy chinned, moustached hunchbacked Erica Jong sound-a-like that is my future.
This is inevitable, obviously, but not necessarily imminent.It is a possibility, because even though they can reattach some one's FACE after it was torn clean off by a gorilla and grow a HUMAN EAR on a fucking MOUSE'S ASS, they can't figure out the whole female thing.
Apologies for the tone: one of the perks of perimenopause is that you pretty much go through puberty again- hormonal rages, wacky periods, break outs. Loads of fun. A joy to be around, as well.
I went to the lady doctor to get some answers and, after waiting for thirty minutes while everyone else in the waiting room was called in, I became nothing short of apoplectic. With this wicked brew of hormones coursing through my veins, it took me several minutes to calm myself enough to even approach the woman sitting behind the frosted glass window and say, only marginally politely ,"Is the nurse practitioner going to see me soon? I only have an hour on the meter." It came out all slurred with rage, like I'd had a mild stroke. She looked at me, smelling my wrath, and said, "Oh, well, you'd better go feed your meter." I paused, swallowing a little bile, and visited the subject of the nurse ever seeing me again, ever so curtly. The woman gave me a wide eyed look and told me in a most condescending tone that she'd check in a minute, after was she finished with the person standing next to me, who had come in twenty eight minutes after I did, as if I was asking her to do me a favor.
I sat back down, seething, and tried to compose myself. I silently talked my self through the various scenarios where I go all True Blood on her and the nine other people back there cackling and blabbering and not doing their jobs, and how that would probably mean finding another gynecologist. I think that security would quickly be called, and I would be standing on Wilshire Boulevard, ala Frances Farmer, surrounded by chubby rent-a cops. I quietly reminded myself that I had been coming here for more than a decade, and that these people had seen my two children born and that a wait was not uncommon. That quickly translated into the more entitled- "I have been coming here for ten fucking years and this is the abominable treatment I get??!!"
Despite the perfect storm within, I actually had every right to be pissed. I had made a last minute appointment on purpose because the nurse I had been speaking with for weeks on the telephone was able to see me quickly because she wasn't as busy as my doctor. I could also hear her voice in the hallway, behind the door where all the people kept going in as I sat, fuming.
She was there, and she was available, but for some reason, the receptionist from Planet Dumbass wouldn't call me in.
I wondered how crazy I would seem if I flouted the "No Cell Phones" policy and called her from the waiting room, to loudly announce that I had been sitting there for forty five minutes. Every time the frosted glass slid open to acknowledge the herds of new patients filing in and being called in moments later, as I should have been almost an hour ago, I looked over at the world's worst receptionist adjusting her mauve scrubs, trying dress up my abject rage in mildly annoyed clothes. I was really mad. I knew that someone had forgotten to check me in, but I was too mad to deal with it. I was afraid to go back up to the window because I was worried about that I might say. Thanks so much, hormones....
At one fifty five, depleted from all the internal drama, I approached the window. I inquired, emotionless, if the nurse was going to see me. This time the woman looked up at me as if this were our first interaction, asked my name (which I had written on the sign in sheet an hour ago), asked why I was there and determined that the other woman who had greeted me had not checked me in and that I had been sitting there for an hour. Brilliance.
She did not apologize or acknowledge that it was she who had cock blocked me over a half an hour ago when I tried to impart this information to her. She faux rushed to open the door and hurried me into the inner hallway.She pointed me toward a nurse and disappeared. I stared at the nurse for a beat, and she cocked her head and asked me what I was doing there. I resisted the urge to say "trying not to commit mass murder". I told her, holding back a lion's roar worth of rage and frustration, that I was there to see the nurse practitioner. She handed me a plastic cup, and I went into the bathroom. Once the door closed, I became a mini-Chernobyl-a heaving, sweating, sobbing, peeing mess. I went through the scenario of me exiting the bathroom in hysterics-howling heaving sobs echoing through the office apropos of nothing? Yeah, even in a medical office dedicated to the care of women, they'd think I was insane.
I pulled it together, put sunglasses over my beet red eyes, handed the nurse my pee, put on the paper gown, saw the nurse practitioner( who mercifully did not question my obviously agitated state, but patted me on the arm as she left and told me to hang in there). I was done within ten minutes from start to finish.
I exited the building, feeling uncharacteristically hopeful. Being female has its pros and cons, and I am lucky to have experienced it all, good, bad and ugly. I am also lucky that I did not get a parking ticket that day after over staying my welcome by twenty agonizing minutes. I am extra lucky that the nurse practitioner solved my hotness issue with a prescription. It all worked out, and I feel a lot better, although a voodoo doll wearing teeny mauve scrubs may come with me to the follow up appointment.