Insert joke about an elderly prostitute
here:___________________________
I don’t actually want to talk about, you know, that. That is depressing. The old trick I am interested in is
what I like to call the “miscommunication gambit.” Sitcoms and romance novels LOVE the miscommunication gambit
to create drama or complicate the situation. I call it a gambit because many miscommunications in popular
culture seem highly unlikely and therefore a calculated construction to advance
plot. Or so I thought until Monday.
Last Friday I went to the doctor for the usual annual
physical and they took a bunch of blood.
I was pretty O.K. with it too, until I realized that it was my BLOOD and
not dyed corn syrup. Anyhoo, on
Monday the doctor’s nurse called and since I missed the call so she left a
message. The message was fairly
straight forward, explaining that I am in overall good health EXCEPT!!! The woman actually said “except!” Except one of the test results was not in yet. So I
spend the whole night thinking I had a disease. The specific disease is not your business, kids.
If my life were a romance novel either I would need to
contact my old flame because I need his marrow, or blood, or platelets. Or maybe, I got pregnant and I have to
figure out what I am going to do, but eventually the father, or some new dude
finds out and we live blissfully together, raising some other guy’s kid.
My life is not a novel. I am fine. No
sickness or babies or nothin’. I was just
stuck with a really horrible night of thinking I was diseased.
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