(What does it say that I have all kinds of real dates, but the moments that inspire blog posts are all the brushes-with-boys? For one, the full-on dates require more editing. For another...sigh...yes, the thrill is in the chase...)
Anyway...Ladies! I caught up with the ER doc again! Yes, it's true. I almost couldn't believe my good luck. And yet, cruel irony, our meeting found yours truly in full, queasy, post-surgical haze of only slightly-worn-off general anesthesia. I could barely lift my head or complete a sentence, and I might add that Blondie had not yet been handed her spectacles, so our meeting was definitely a foggy one in all senses of the word.
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Vincent Van Gogh, "Selfportrait with fur hat, bandaged ear and tobacco pipe," 1889. Remove the fur hat and tobacco pipe, add a hospital Johnny and retain the dazed expression. This is a decent interpretation of Blondie during her 2nd pass at El Doctore. |
As far as I can recall, he commented on my low heart rate and asked if that was normal. [Answer: Come a little closer and let's see if we can't speed it up!] Then, he asked for a smile. [Nothing too romantic -- he was checking to make sure my facial nerves were intact. They were.]
Prior to the procedure, I had boldly admitted to my nurse and my surgeon that I thought he was dreamy. They seemed amused, and someone commented that he might be married. Boo.* Still, no one had mentioned that he would be stopping by. Maybe they sent him as a post-operative surprise? I won't look that blurry gift-horse in the mouth.
*I have scant few rules, but that, of course, is one of them. There are sooo many fish in the sea that there is no need to dip into other gal's nets. If this gets confirmed, he's off the list, plain and simple. Until then: fair game!
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