What We'll Tell Our Grandkids

After what felt like an endless day, I just wanted a bottle of Merlot. Let’s be honest, probably two. It was one of those workdays where you question all your life choices and form regrets you never had.

My new regret was being a publicist.

Specifically a publicist for a mediocre, national, daytime-television doctor. One who performed an impromptu speech on live television about his personal opinions on the female anatomy and successfully offended an entire target audience of women between the ages of 18-49.

After six hours of damage control, I needed my wine. I left for the nearest grocery store the first opportunity I had. I entered the store on a mission and power walked my six-inch heels straight to the wine aisle. I skimmed their limited selection for Merlot. And, lucky for me, there was one bottle left.

The universe was giving me the win (and wine) I deserved.

I reached my hand out for the glorious bottle on the second shelf. A sense of relief draped over me. I was even feeling a little excited. I could finally put a bow on this awful day.

But then I saw it. Another hand reaching for MY bottle. I immediately felt angry and, without thinking, smacked the unknown hand.

Surprisingly, not my worst first impression.

I quickly brought my hand back and turned towards the person who stood between me and my wine. He had an androgynous frame and dressed like a hipster from 2009: he wore a red flannel shirt, a beanie, and large, thick-rimmed glasses. It was as if he lost the memo the year was 2021.

I love the confidence of a man who wasn’t afraid to be out of style.

My anger quickly dissipated and my flirtation congregated. I then did a delicate giggle reserved for only men whom I have never met.

“You take it. I was just going to pour myself a glass tonight and curl up with my book.” By book, I meant a Buzzfeed listicle.

Semantics.

“I was planning on doing the same thing,” he replied without skipping a beat.

His voice was deeper than I expected. The type of deep male tone that hits you on a primal level. It unlocks the biological setting and takes over both your conscious and subconscious.

This guy is getting hotter by the second.

He smiled out of the corner of his mouth while he spoke. “I don’t know about you, but I have no desire to drive home in this traffic. I saw some park benches outside. We could share this bottle with each other instead of sharing it with our books.”

Buzzfeed listicle. Again, semantics.

This guy was picking up what I had thrown down. And before I could say yes, I heard it: the loud, warning siren ringtone. I knew immediately my douchebag client did something else.

More annoyed than disappointed, I told this hipster fantasy of mine the siren meant a work emergency and I had to go. I didn’t get his name. I didn’t get his number. And I didn’t get the Merlot.

I'm a modern-day Cinderella.

The next day wasn’t any easier. I gave up on putting out my client’s fires and just let them burn. Fortunately, I was able to sneak out early. Unfortunately, the reason was to go to a gynecology appointment.

The last thing I wanted to do in my free time was deal with another male doctor with opinions about the female body. But my normal doctor was on maternity leave, and I was stuck with her male substitute.

I had picked up wine before the appointment since I was unsuccessful the night before. I needed a glass the moment I got home. Because it was a hot day, I didn’t want to leave a bottle in my car and risk it getting baked. I also didn’t want to carry a bottle of wine into my appointment and risk telling the truth on the medical survey question ‘how many units of alcohol do you drink each week?’

Three units. Always lie.

I avoided the bottles altogether and bought a four-pack of Merlot cans that comfortably hid beneath my wallet and cell phone within my purse. As my wine sat in my purse, I sat on the exam table. Cold and naked except for the exam gown. I uncomfortably sat there in silence, reading fear-mongering posters about STDs and pregnancies.

I honestly don’t know which is worse.

I finally heard the courtesy-doctor knock. The door creaked open, and I saw his white coat on a lean frame. He had a full head of hair that either was fashion-forward or bedhead. I couldn’t tell. While still looking down at his clipboard he began to speak and that’s when I heard it: the voice that penetrated my ovaries merely 18 hours before. And as soon as he looked up from the clipboard he revealed those large, thick-rimmed hipster glasses.

It's not bedhead. It's beanie hair.

I saw the surprise in his eyes as soon as he saw me. That’s when I knew he knew who I was.

I delicately giggled and asked, “what are you doing here?”

Turns out the confidence he exuded in the wine aisle was not translating in the gynecology exam room. He nervously explained he was my doctor for the day and successfully looked at everything in the room that wasn't me.

Unimpressed by his answer, I nodded my head slowly and simply replied with the one-syllable word “cool”. I wanted control of this unexpected (and vulnerable) position I was in, and I figured a condescending tone would help.

It's surprising I'm single.

He instructed me to lay down so we could begin with the breast exam. I hadn’t had a proper date in nearly seven months and completely forgot about the nipple hair that would give the term ‘Girls Gone Wild’ an entirely new definition. As he washed his hands, I attempted to pluck the longest hair. Of course, it didn’t work and just made it look like I gave that single hair a perm.

I awkwardly smiled and laid on my back. He opened the front of my gown. With his index and middle finger, he looked for lumps. Meanwhile, I puckered up my lips in an attempt to look cute as he stood above me. It didn’t matter though. He performed the entire exam avoiding eye contact. Instead, he made eye contact with a pregnant woman on the poster behind me with the words ‘No Birth Control is 100%’.

If my ungroomed hair isn't a cock block, that surely is.

He finished the exam. “Your breasts look good. Umm, well you look good. Ugh, you don’t have cancer...I mean you don’t have lumps. Well, that’s not true, you do, but I’m not worried about those.” His face turned fully red. “We can move onto your cervical examination.”

He sat down on his stool, and I awkwardly scooted my ass towards the edge of the exam table so my feet could reach the stirrups. Much like my ‘Girls Gone Wild’ nipple hair, my pubic region was there to match. He explained each step before he proceeded.

He's a gentleman.

In his first step, he inserted two fingers to check for something. I have no idea what that something was. Not because he didn’t tell me, but because I was fully in my head.

The hot guy from the grocery store was about to perform a medical procedure on me that is not intended to be sexy outside of foreplay (and porn), but I find him sexy, and I don’t know whether or not arousal is appropriate or offensive.

He did his little two-finger test, and I proudly restrained myself through controlled breathing I learned from Gwyneth Paltrow.

In his second step, he inserted the claws of death. (I don’t know what they are called, but they turn the vagina into a portal by separating the sides of the vagina). With my portal opened, he performed the third step. He inserted some sort of wand and scraped the inside of my vagina.

Like a shitty magic trick.

I kept the back of my head glued to the exam table. My gaze stayed at the ceiling. I didn't dare look up at him.

It is an unflattering angle, and I don’t want a double chin.

He removed the wand and portal device, and I sat back up trying to cover my boobs and pubes simultaneously. He began washing his hands again and told me I should have the test results by next week. That’s when I realized he would have access to my medical records.

I hope he doesn’t see 2007.

“Are you going to check my medical records,” I asked

“I’ll view these test results, so I can discuss them with you.”

“What about past test results?”

“If there’s something you are concerned with, I am happy to review them with you.”

“I’m not concerned, but are you going to check them?”

“No. That would be unethical.”

“You can check 2008 and forward,” I said in a flirty tone. I couldn’t stop myself.

“Unless you are concerned about something, I wouldn’t go back and check your medical records.” He said this with his side-mouth smile. This was the first time in the exam room he looked comfortable.

“Look, I wanted to say ‘yes’ last night but I had a million fires to put out at work.”

“I completely understand. No need to explain.”

“Well, I do have a few cans of Merlot in my purse if you want to share some wine right now?”

“Here? In the exam room?! Oh no, that would REALLY be unethical.”

“You’re a doctor. I know you’re busy. I’m not a doctor. But, trust me, I am busy. I know I have this moment free. I also know I am your last appointment. So it’s not unethical, it’s practical. We are two busy professionals consenting to partake in a glass...well…. can...of wine.”

I pointed to my purse and snapped at him to grab it. My gown would completely fall off if I attempted to get it myself. He handed me my purse, and I pulled out two cans of Merlot and gave him one. He asked if I wanted to change first. I shrugged.

He already saw my hairy tits.

Before we raised our cans he finally looked me in the eye. “Can I at least take you out for a real glass of Merlot later this week?”

I looked at him with one hand holding my gown closed and the other holding the wine and said, “as long as you promise to tell our grandkids this was our first date.”

Then we cheersed.