Has Anyone Seen My Pants? by Sarah Colonna Read Free Book Online Page B

heart conditions (that I know of), I don’t have diabetes (that I know of), I’m not pregnant (that I know of), and I’ve never had surgery of any kind . . . wait, have I?
    “Excuse me,” I called out to the receptionist, who was wrapping something ceramic in newspaper.
    “Yes?” she asked, annoyed.
    “Is Botox considered surgery?”
    “No,” she said, rolling her eyes.
    “I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot,” I told her, feeling the need to defend myself. “I just get a little between the eyebrows. It was starting to look like I had a number eleven on my forehead.”
    “Uh-huh.” She was disinterested.
    “I’d show you what I mean, but I can’t make the number eleven there anymore because of the Botox. That stuff really works, you know.”
    “Uh-huh,” she repeated as she put the item wrapped in newspaper into a box.
    “You sure you guys aren’t moving?” I asked, pressing her.
    “We’re not moving. Are you done with your forms? The doctor will see you now.”
    “Wow, that was quick,” I said as I handed her the clipboard. “Usually doctors take forever. This is great!”
    But is it great? I wondered. Why isn’t he a little busier? At least make me wait twenty minutes for show or something.
    Mrs. Personality led me into a room, took my blood pressure, and weighed me.
    “One hundred thirty-five pounds,” she said in what felt like the loudest voice in the world.
    “One hundred thirty-five?!” I repeated in a panicked whisper. “That can’t be right. I weigh one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Weigh me again, I’ll take my shoes off.”
    She looked down at my blue Havaianas, then back up at me. “You think your flip-flops weigh seven pounds?”
    I really didn’t like this bitch. “Forget it. Obviously your scale is off. Or maybe it’s because of whatever is wrong with my hormones.”
    “What’s wrong with your hormones?” she asked, genuinely interested now.
    “I don’t know, that’s why I’m here. Can I see the doctor now, please?”
    “He’ll be right in. He’s just finishing up some packing.”
    “Packing? So you are moving!”
    “No, we’re not moving,” she said as she exited the room.
    What the fuck is going on in this place?
    A couple minutes later, the doctor came in, planted himself in a little chair on wheels, and rolled over to the exam table, where I was sitting.
    “Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”
    “It’s Colonna.”
    “Ah. Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”
    “No, Co lo nna,” I repeated.
    He just sat there blinking at me. WTF?
    “Good afternoon,” I said, giving up.
    “So what brings you here today?”
    Ugh. I hate when they ask you that after you’ve just spent fifteen minutes filling out forms explaining what brought you there today—the same forms they appear to be studying while you repeat exactly what’s written down.
    “I haven’t been myself lately; I think there’s something wrong with my hormones.”
    “What do you mean by ‘haven’t been yourself’?” he asked, taking notes. Seeing him take notes actually made me uneasy. My gynecologist didn’t need to take notes; why did he?
    “Well, I’ve been very . . . on edge.”
    “What do you mean by ‘on edge’?” he repeated in the exact same voice in which he’d asked the last question.
    “What do I mean by ‘on edge’?” I repeated sarcastically. “I mean that I am on edge . . . like more than usual.”
    “Uh-huh, I can see that,” he said as he jotted something down.
    “No, I’m not on edge right now, I just mean in general lately I’ve been a little more on edge.”
    “You seem a little on edge right now, Ms. Corona,” he said with a weird lilt in his voice like he was kind of enjoying irritating me.
    “Well, I wasn’t on edge when I walked in here, but yeah, you’re right: I’m a little on edge now.”
    “And why do you think that is?” he asked as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his large nose.
    Is this guy fucking serious?
    “Dr.