I met Sally (you are not going to believe this) in a doctor's office. She was the nurse and I was being "processed," like a piece of Hickory Farm smoked sausage, for a pre-hiring physical required by a major auto company. The physical itself was a joke. They drew some blood to make sure that I wasn't addicted to any illegal substances which might cause moi to go postal on the assembly line and ruin a few of their priceless sardine-cans-with-tops otherwise known as Plymouth Reliants. And then they processed me into a holding tank with a long examination table. I figured that the nurse would check my blood pressure and that... that would be that.
How wrong I was.
A knock on the door and suddenly my blood pressure went up. Way up. Sally entered the room and, without even looking up, said, "Blah blah blah yada yada yada." Actually it was probably more like, "Chuckie, I am your nurse and I'll be checking your blood pressure." But I was hearing nothing. I had just fallen in love, and my ears were ringing with the sounds of little sparrows telling me that I had just met the woman I was going to marry.
She still hadn't even looked up! So I stumbled and stuttered a few words until she finally looked into my bloodshot eyes (major pollen issues). It was at that moment that I cursed myself for wearing a pair of yellow khaki cut-offs and a purple Bon Jovi t-shirt that I'd picked up at a Goodwill store the week before. She must have thought that she was looking into the eyes of, in the words of Adam Sandler, the most loseriest guy in the bunch. In fact, her eyes flickered momentarily with extreme distaste. I even saw her nostrils flare unconsciously as she took in the full scent of me, fresh from washing previously-mentioned Trans Am at a cheap and tawdry self-wash joint in a bad part of town. But I digress.
Well, instead of digressing, I might as well recount the other mistake I'd made: eating lunch at the local Popeye's Chicken Shack before washing said Trans Am. In short, I was dirty, smelly, sweaty, stinky, and silly. I would have to overcome the ruinous first-impression that I had just given this wondrous creature with an overdose of compelling wit. I reached into my bag of conversational tricks and came up with this: "So, are those green scrubs required, or are you about to appear on The Gong Show?"
She gave me a look that could have melted a generic can of Beefaroni. And I'm talking about the CAN. To describe it as "withering" would be an insult to the English language. Other words that come close to approximating it might include "hateful," "despising," "pitying," or "horrified." Here we were in this prefab holding pen of a doctor's office, and a swamp creature named Dopey was trying to run bad pick-up lines on Snow White.
Sally reverted to form and politely tried to steer this train wreck of a conversation to more formal matters.
"Could you please strip down to your boxers?" Yes, she assumed that I was some kind of Neanderthal lunchbox dude wearing Sears-brand boxers out of the fifties or something. She probably expected the boxers to have "Orin" or "Otis" stitched into them by my farm-gal mother.
It was then that I panicked -- and Sally had not even done the blood pressure thing yet.
Problem number one: I wasn't WEARING any boxers.
Problem number two: The FDA lists half-life on a Popeye's chicken snacks at ninety minutes. Olive Oyl was scratching on my can of spinach -- and she wanted out.
I broke into a cold sweat.
Leaving the apartment that morning, I had completely overlooked the physical when I went down to the park to walk the nature trail. I simply hadn't worn any underwear that morning because there weren't any clean pairs to put on. I had not given it another thought. Until now.
I stalled.
"Could I possibly use the restroom first?" I heard a prepubescent sixth grader ask as I listened to the words stumbling out of my pie hole.
Give me an A for thinking fast.
I was going to think my way out of this.
Unfortunately, the little nightmare was just beginning. Sally pointed to a door right there within the little holding pen. I hadn't noticed this door before. It must have been one of those plastic pretend things that they make old people go into to pee into cups for urine samples. I began to hyperventilate.
I saw a tiny smile at the edge of Sally's mouth as she realized that the swamp creature Bon Jovi groupie was really worried. Now she had gotten me back for the Gong Show crack.
I slithered toward the pretend door and pulled it shut. There was no stopping the blast of Popeye's, and I wondered if the toilet could stand on its hinges. It creaked like the Titanic just before it broke in half.
I heard Sally in the next room, talking to another nurse who had come in. "I think he's sick in there."
To which the other nurse began to guffaw like Rosie O'Donnell at a Cracker Barrel buffet.
I simply didn't care. I was more worried about Popeye at the moment; and I also was desperately attempting to remember which channel that sleazy lawyer had advertised on. I might have a major lawsuit on my hands.
My butt felt like it was downloading a polar bear that had just eaten a pregnant Eskimo.
I heard more snickering from the peanut gallery. This time it was Sally who was laughing. The other nurse had said something funny, but I hadn't been able to understand it because of the snap, crackle, and pop. I wished that I had eaten some Krispies instead of the chicken.
I skulked from the bathroom like Halle Berry at a driver's education seminar. The other nurse was still there -- I guess she had to see the swamp creature for herself. She probably didn't think Sally was being truthful as she described the pitiful specimen of a man that was I.
"Well," I heard myself utter, "I must have eaten some bad clams." The other nurse tittered as she left the room, most probably scurrying toward the den of nurses to pass on the little tidbit. I would be famous for a while.
Sally took my vitals. Surely this Nightmare on Nurses Street was over! But no. It was at that moment that I heard some more warning bells: "She will be right in."
"She?" I said.
"Yes. The doctor is a woman."
Five minutes later, a woman resembling Shirley Jones from the Partridge family came into the room. And as I squirmed in my now-stinky shorts, she said the words that I most feared in the world: "Strip down to your boxers and get on the table."
I now realize that I have not even gotten to the part of this little melodrama that includes how I turned Sally into my spouse, not to mention the impending reunion. Stay tuned for installment two [1] of how my gastro problems seem to appear at the worst times.