Nobody cares that I’m dating a doctor. Well, he’s a surgeon, to be clear. And whenever I tell someone, like the baristo making my chai latte that I used to make myself before dating a doctor, they pretend they don’t hear me. The baristo wrote “Chad” on my cup. Why would he write “Chad” on my cup? My name’s not Chad.
I blame the medical field. It’s turned doctors into villains – my gardener was complaining about his premiums last week, and when I told him I’m dating a doctor and don’t have to worry about premiums anymore, he went back to raking the astroturf. Talking to me about my boyfriend, the doctor, wouldn’t be such a sore subject if his premiums weren’t so high. See what insurance companies are doing to even the most basic aspects of our society?
And then I told the pharmacist I’m dating a doctor. Actually, I told her that my boyfriend prescribed the medication, because he’s a doctor, you know. Well, a surgeon, I said, and added that it didn’t matter. I didn’t want her to get the impression that it mattered to me whether my boyfriend was a doctor or a surgeon.
I don’t have to schedule appointments. And doctors can prescribe medication. So I asked the pharmacist if she has to go to a doctor to get meds. It’s silly if she does. The pills are right there for her to grab. But I don’t think she heard the question because she just said the total was twenty-two dollars. I acted a little surprised at the amount so as to not rub it in that I’m dating a doctor. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.
When I told my friend, who I’d still be living near if I wasn’t dating a doctor, that I was dating a doctor, she didn’t quit her hourly job at the Humane Society and go out looking for her own doctor. What do you say to that? In fact, when I told my sister, my brother, my parents, a cousin, and two uncles, none of them went to look for their own doctor. I wanted to tell them their life would be better if they dated a doctor, but I guess that’s something they’ll have to figure out for themselves.
My boyfriend had a medical conference in the Florida Keys, so I flew out there to meet him when it ended. Anyway, there was some sort of emergency on the plane. A heart attack or whatever. And you know how they always ask if there’s a medical professional on board. No one spoke up so I said, well, my boyfriend’s a doctor. They all looked at me like I said I had a bomb. Then I realized, of course, I had made a mistake. “Actually,” I said, “he’s a surgeon.”