The Hole

My rheumatologist is a short, small-boned man of Chinese ancestry. His doctoring skills are superb, but his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. He is dignified, almost to the point of being funereal, and wouldn't know a sense of humor if it jumped up and bit his flat, distinguished ass. His demeanor is always serious; I have never seen him crack a smile. Needless to say, he has never been one of my favorite people. But he is the only rheumatologist for forty miles around, so I endure his personality for the sake of my arthritis.

In order to clarify what I am about to tell you, it will be necessary to educate you slightly on the ins and outs of my wardrobe. I once heard a fashion maven state on a tv program that black is a slenderizing color. Now I'm no clothes horse, and I have never been a prissy woman. But I am a little wide in the hip area, so I took this comment very seriously. Consequently, I now wear black pants almost everywhere I go. At any given time, you will find from eight to ten pairs, folded neatly, and stacked on the shelves of my armoire. The shade of black may vary slightly from pair to pair, depending upon the fade, but they all look virtually the same. Some zip and button, and some have an elastic waistband.

About a year ago, I had a 10am appointment with Dr. Highbrow. At 9:15 I realized I was running late, so I ran to take a quick bath. There are punctuality police who work in his office, and they will eye you with a certain amount of disdain if you do not arrive in a timely manner. They prefer you to arrive around 15 minutes ahead of your scheduled appointment. It takes 15 minutes to drive from my home to his office, so you can understand my need to get a move on.

After a five minute shower, I brushed my teeth and wriggled into my underclothes; then I grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt out of the armoire and slid them on. After raking a comb through my hair, I snagged my purse from the coat rack, and hit the road.

I was turning into his parking lot when I made a horrifying discovery. I had dropped the piece of gum I was about to chew into my lap, and was fishing around on the seat underneath me to try and find it. What I found instead was a humongous hole in the crotch of my pants. Perhaps that's putting it mildly. In point of fact, there was no crotch in my pants. Some quick thinking convinced me that the key to controlling the situation was to simply keep my legs together, which I was pretty sure I could do. So I got out of the car, went inside, and took the elevator to the 3rd floor. It was almost exactly 9:45 when I arrived.

The waiting room was full. Someone had just been called back, vacating one of the cushy leather chairs closest to the receptionist. I sank carefully into it, wrapping one leg securely around the other, determined to keep the problem area hidden. If exposed, the white crotch of my panties, contrasted by the black material that framed it, would scream HUGE HOLE in forty different languages.

At last, I was called to go back and see the doctor. A nurse led me into one of the small examining rooms, where I sat carefully down in a straight chair beside the examining table. If everything proceeded as usual, the doctor would come in, ask how I had been getting along, then beef about how I wasn't taking my medicine as regularly as I should. Then he'd write me a new prescription, and I'd leave. I could hightail it home and deposit the offending pants into the trash can. Mentally, I began to pat myself on the back. For the most part, I felt, I had handled what could have been an embarrassing situation with an acceptable degree of cool aplomb.

The doctor entered the room and sat down on a small stool opposite me.

"Good morning, Mrs. Reid, he said stiffly. "I looked over the x-rays from your last visit, and your hip joints seem to have deteriorated somewhat. Are you having any pain in that area?

"Well yes, I replied. "As a matter of fact I am. I've doubled up on the Advil, the way you said I should if that happened-----

Suddenly he was on his feet, patting the examining table. "Get up on the table, and let's check your range of motion.

A nurse appeared as if by magic, and I could see that I had no option other than to comply. So I got up off my chair and slid onto the table, lying on my back with my legs still tightly closed. First he prodded around on my hips until I let out a slight yelp. Then he picked up my leg, bent it at the knee, and pushed it to the side. He asked me to hold it in that position, then walked around the table and repeated the procedure with the other leg. My crotch lay before them like an open book, THE HOLE exposed in all its glory. There was nothing to do but lie there and pretend it didn't exist as he continued to manipulate my legs; first one, and then the other. Finally he was finished. He wrote a new prescription, then hurried out of the room. I breathed a sigh of relief, and silently thanked God that it was over. Little did I know that my humiliation was not yet complete.

I slunk to the front desk and paid my bill, then headed quickly out of the office to the elevator. It lumbered up to the 3rd floor, and the doors wheezed open. As I was about to step inside, who should come hurrying around the back corner of the office but the doctor, who stepped into it behind me. Nobody else got on.

As we rode down together, he made a heroic effort to contain his laughter, but I could plainly see that the corners of his mouth were turned up in a smile. I've always believed that one of the reasons I exist is to "loosen up" the anally retentive, and try to get them to enjoy life a little more. I got off the elevator, feeling that the visit had been worthwhile after all.