Chris Johnson

The doctor is in … the wrong place

Tomorrow I will go to the doctor for a routine checkup. Coincidentally, this also falls on cheeseburger day at my doctor’s office.

At least, that’s what they call it when I come because I have to have blood drained out of me to check my cholesterol, triglycerides and my Zikabola. As soon as they stick that needle in my arm, someone up front will start sniffing the air and ask, “OK, who brought cheeseburgers?”

My doctor is a very nice person, and she’s the first doctor I’ve ever had who actually listens to me. However — and she knows this — I absolutely abhor going to the doctor, any doctor. And it’s not just because she asks probing questions about my health, such as, “So, are you trying to kill yourself or what?”

And I’m especially going to hate it tomorrow for two reasons: One, I’m pretty sure that when they suck the blood out of me tomorrow that it will not only smell like cheeseburgers, but also will likely look like olive oil. And, B, I just saw the doctor this past Friday.

I didn’t see the doctor at the office, mind you, or in passing at the mall. No, I saw my doctor while I was sitting in a burger joint and chowing down on a triple cheeseburger. Busted!

I tried to hang my head down and pretended not to see her, but she had the audacity to sit at the table right next to us. Great! I thought I might be able to turn the tables, so to speak, and point out that she was also being very bad by also eating at this joint. Unfortunately, she was eating a veggie burger — which I believe should be cause for deportation from Georgia — and had some side besides french fries, probably some sort of tree bark or weeds.

I don’t like bumping into doctors in the real world outside of their offices. It’s weird. It’s like when I was a kid and my family would bump into one of my teachers at a restaurant or something. That was worse than bumping into doctors because my teachers would strike up some unnecessary conversation with my parents about how I had a lot of potential and that I might should consider doing my homework every now and then.

The worst part of all this is that for all my hyperbolic talk of blood that smells of cheeseburgers, I’ve actually been much better behaved than usual. For the last few months, I’ve steered clear of burger and fast-food joints. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a McDonald’s that the Hamburglar was briefly detained for questioning about my disappearance.

My doctor, however, is not going to buy it, nor will she care that the only reason I was there was that my dad called and invited us to try this new burger joint — and he was buying! My doctor may know a lot about cholesterol and impending death and trivial junk like that, but she doesn’t understand my diet plan that clearly makes exceptions for free food. I do not count the calories that comes from food I don’t pay for.

That’s left me with only one ploy tomorrow — lying. So, when she asks me how I’ve been doing, I’m going to be ready:

“Well, I’ve been eating great and exercising. Physically, I’m awesome. But I’m terribly depressed.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, I just found out my wife has been sneaking out every Friday night with a guy who looks exactly like me.”

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