Shakespeare was Right
by Bella Rum
I got my annual mammogram and biennial bone density scan today. Honestly, I’m not telling you this because I do nothing but run to doctors or get tests. I swear. I have an entire life that does not include doctors or diagnostic tests. Swear!
I hesitate to share the conversation I had with H this morning. If you still have any illusions about him, I hate to remove them, but I’ve given him fair warning. If he insists on saying screwy things, it’s content for the blog. Still he persist. Who am I to object?
H ~ The lady at the diagnostics place called and said, “Nothing from the waist up.”
Me ~ Uh huh.
H ~ From the waist up.
Me ~ Yes.
H ~ From the waist up!
Me ~ Got it.
H ~ Does that mean you can’t wear your bra over there?
Me ~ …
Whenever I put that ellipsis in there, it means I’m staring at him with a dumfounded expression.
I explained to him that she meant no deodorant, powders, perfumes, etc. He looked so disappointed. Leave it to a man to turn a mammogram into a Sports Illustrated photo shoot.
After the deed was done, he took me to lunch at Baker’s Crust. I had the caprese panini: oven-roasted tomatoes, house-made mozzarella, basil pesto, and spinach on sourdough bread. I chose the half sandwich and cup of tomato cheese soup combo. It was great and just enough.
We kept saying it was a nice day, and it was. When I was making that hour plus drive to my cardiologist (before I found doctors up here), he turned that drudgery of an experience into fun. Snap! Just like that. We started making stops at our favorite place to eat, our favorite specialty market, making a detour through Williamsburg, etc. Unbelievably, it became something I looked forward to – a mini adventure.
He isn’t half bad at doing that kind of thing. He’s a lemons-to-lemonade kind of guy, and he drags me along, kicking and screaming about the world not being fair. He keeps pointing over there at that rainbow that I can’t see for all the rain. I tell you, every pessi needs an opti in their lives, but a fool who thinks a sixty-three-year-old woman is still marginally passable to go out of the house without her bra is even better. OMG! Shakespeare was right. Love is blind.