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| Somewhere in Beverly Hills, CA |
I texted a friend today from the foot doctor's office:
This ocean scene with sounds
really makes the doc's office
EXACTLY like being at the beach.
There's nothing wrong with my feet, and since I want to respect their privacy, and they are teenagers, and they are Teenaged Boys, and Teenaged Boys' feet are sort of horrifying (how many of you mothers out there took a look at your sons' feet one day, and they'd all of a sudden become terrifying as opposed to adorable?). The parenthetical happened to me between five and ten years ago, and it's a sad parenting day when you no longer have any desire to kiss that little foot but rather avoid under all circumstances even looking at that wart or those flakes or that ingrown toenail or the ridiculous length of that toenail, much less inquire how it happened. Hence, the foot doctor who does wonderful surgical techniques and cryo-freezing and dispensing of betadine and gauze pads and gives instructions to the person at the end of the hairy leg as opposed to the woman with her head ducked in the chair by the door busily texting. The foot doctor is one of those rare physicians (and men) that I trust implicitly, have literally nothing to say to beyond the usual pleasantries and secretly idolize because, frankly, I have no desire to tend to my teenaged sons' feet.
I did find the ocean scene television hilarious, though, and wondered how it'd go over in the pediatric neurology clinic right before you go in to your quarterly $575 Reflex and Drug Refill Check-up. I, for one, would have appreciated some kind of Matrix-type situation back in the days when I waited in the pediatric neurology clinic and would have gladly drowned myself in the television ocean. Sophie, of course, as a mermaid would have swum off to freedom. At the foot doctor, though, I am content to stare at the screen, the susurration of the lapping waves a perfect accompaniment to my silent hosannas to a doctor that can actually fix my kids.
