“He’ll be right in to see you.”
Your doctor appointment is scheduled for 5:30 PM and at 5:25 PM some very nice 30-something “small-business office attractive” receptionist leans into the waiting room calling out your name. For a nanosecond you think you’ve spotted flirtation in her eyes when it’s just the effects of that rare occasion when an attractive woman says your name out loud. Still, she reminds you of a girl you knew in school so you hold on to this ridiculous fantasy and watch her walk and lead you to your Exam Room. She walks well and has a great sense of direction. You arrive at your Exam Room. She tells you where to place your things, whether or not you need to disrobe and put on the patient gown (which almost falls apart as she hands it you because it is made of f’n crepe paper) and then she leaves you with a smile and an expectation of “immediacy” when she says: “He’ll be right in to see you.”
You contemplate reading the People Magazine lying on the sterile-looking counter, apparently left over from a previous patient, but you remember her encouraging words as you mentally discard the need to kill time like the other schmucks, some of whom had to wait 90 minutes in this small Exam Room, in which, incidentally, you have convinced yourself no man has ever been subjected to one of those intense, comprehensive prostate examinations where it is always necessary to use a bunch of tissues as soon as the doctor leaves the room so that your ass can once again feel your underwear. Before you choose a place to sit down and wait for the doctor, you nevertheless look for evidence of any such discarded tissues because such a stealth action is never done with consideration for the next patient and you would hate to sit on a surface in this prostate-exam-friendly room upon which a rushed patient left his DNA.
You see the sterile white table paper on the black exam table and figure it has to be immunized against anything so that’s your spot. After making too deep of an indentation sitting down on the paper, you suddenly feel “cold leather” and realize you’ve ripped the paper exposing your jean-covered “cheeks” to micro-organisms from every possible genetic configuration and medical procedure including the aforementioned “ass-to-underwear” maneuver. You look at your watch and it’s now 6:10 PM. WTF happened to your 5:30 PM appointment and to Ms. Office Attractive’s proclamation that: “He’ll be right in to see you”
You try to skillfully get off the Exam Table but when you place your right hand on its edge to get some leverage, the paper rips again. Stuck in this ridiculous story, you push open the door into the business-area and you spot your secret admirer and ask, “What’s the story? My appointment was for 5:30 PM and it’s now 6:15 PM.” Time suddenly stops and everything seems to be moving in slow-motion like in that “Seinfeld” episode with Keith Hernandez and the “second spitter theory.” You watch your favorite Doctor Office Receptionist digest your probing question and with Donald Trump-like “tremendous” enthusiasm, she extends the boundaries of condescension and replies: “He’ll be right in to see you.”