I haven’t been doing too well on the dating scene recently. A few dates, but nothing really came out of them. While the first dates seemed to go fairly well, the conversations were rudimentary, and the connections made were fleeting.
I got some action today, though.
Let me explain.
I went to the doctor earlier in the week to get a flu shot and a checkup. Since there is a history of diabetes in my family, he instructed me to get blood work done. Fine.
Today, as I was waiting in the diagnostic lab’s waiting room, I noticed that the referral sheet that my doctor gave me had the wrong phone number. I made a mental note to address this issue as an extremely large black woman rumbled into the room. She was holding a clipboard and wearing all purple. I mean, she was big. And the fact that she was wearing what seemed to be purple sheets definitely made her comparable to a relatively popular television commercial character mentioned in today’s title.
She stopped in the middle of the room. “Youngman Brown…” she bellowed, looking at me, the only patron.
She turned her head and nodded toward the desk. “Take a seat at the desk, baybee.” Though the desk was only five feet away, she looked at it forlornly, as Gatsby might look at the green light across the bay.
It wasn’t until I was in my seat at the desk that she finally began the journey to her seat. This offered me a moment to take note of the tidiness of her desk. It wasn’t necessarily extremely neat, but there was a perfect line of ten or so cups of the same size, all holding different items. Upon further inspection, I realized that these cups were actually clear green cups which were meant for urine specimens. The cups all still had that broken white sticker on the top lip.
While it was thrifty of her to use these cups, I found it extremely disturbing for some reason. Here is a line of cups, meant to hold people’s urine. Instead they were holding thumbtacks, rubber bands, and candy corn.
Even though they are unused specimen containers (I assume/hope), I still know what they were supposed to hold. And what they were supposed to hold is not something that I eat or drink. It’s the same reason I would never eat fresh grapes from an unused diaper. It’s the principle. And that is enough for me to plan my excuse in case she offers me candy corn.
No thanks, I’m trying to watch my weight. No. Better not broach that subject.
No thanks, I never really liked candy corn. No. Don’t want to offend her choice of candy.
No thanks, I just ate. Perfect.
She finally made it to her seat and, out of breath, asked, “You haven’t eaten anything in the past twelve hours, right?”
There went my candy corn play. I had to fast for half a day. “No, only water.”
“Good.” She put one of her empty green cups down on the table sideways and rolled it towards me. “Go fill that up. The bathroom is over there.”
“I thought it was just blood work,” I said, wondering if I had any pee ready to go.
“Urine, too, baybee.”
I stood up. “Oh, before I forget, they have the wrong phone number on that sheet.”
She clicked a pen. “Okay, gimme your new digits,” she said with the first smile I had seen out of her.
I gave it to her, then went to the bathroom. I managed to produce a sample and waited in the room across the hall, as per her instructions.
I waited for a long time. Ten minutes, perhaps. When she finally ambled in, she collapsed in the chair to my left.
“Left or right arm?” she asked, breathing heavily. Fortunately, I am right handed, because I don’t think I would have had the heart to make her stand back up just to sit in the seat to my right.
She put a rubber tourniquet on my (bulging) bicep and began to do her thing.
Now, I don’t have a problem with needles or giving blood at all. I just can’t look at the needle going in or out. Nor can I look at a vile filling up with blood that I know is my own. So I turned away during the whole process. It took a minute or two, and then she said, “Okay.”
I said, “I’m good?” as a way of signifying that the coast was clear to look. I turned my head and looked down at my completely numb hand to see that it was covered in what can only be described as … her boob.
“Oh, you’re good,” she said, looking at me, “Baybee.”
The “baybee” didn’t strike me as abnormal, but the look she gave me told me that my accidental groping was no accident. She made direct eye contact, and I noticed a slight pursing of her lips. She essentially winked at me without actually winking.
I know you are asking how significant of a feel I copped. The answer is significant.
I’ll put it this way: if her breast was a mound of clay, you’d be able to use it for my left handprint on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Or for the visual learners:
Either way, it wasn’t quite the answer to my prayers I was looking for in regards to “connecting” with that special someone.
“Thankyoubye!” I said as I power-walked the hell out of there.
Flustered, I pressed the wrong button in the elevator. I rubbed my forearm and hand, not to get the circulation back, but for some darker, more tragic reason. My belief in cooties was reaffirmed.
As I got into my car, I was troubled with new anxieties.
I wondered about the status of my phone number. I imagined her scribbling it down onto a tiny piece of paper, putting it into a urinalysis cup, and locking it into her desk.
More importantly, however, I wondered what would happen come the day that I might need to get my sperm checked.