So I went to the podiatrist yesterday afternoon. (Here's why, if you missed that post.) My boot and I have been greatly anticipating this appointment, knowing it will determine how long we'll be stuck with each other. I can't express how ready I am to be finished with this torture device.
As soon as I told the receptionist my name, she typed a few keys and then her fingers stopped as she stared blankly at the screen. She looked at me, and then back to the computer.
"Your name is S-E-N-T-E-R?" (This is a common issue here in the States. Only German-speaking countries get Fenner right the first time, every time. It's a burden the Fenners bestowed on their descendants by crossing the Atlantic so many generations ago.)
"No, F-E-N-N-E-R."
More typing. More puzzled looks between my face and the screen, as though I should have letters stamped on my forehead to help her understand whatever issue she was having. I was prepared to spell Fenner again, until she said, "Your appointment isn't until next Tuesday."
"What?" I pulled out my appointment card and handed it to her like it was Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. "But -- but it says right here, March 23!"
She looked at the card and at the computer again. "I'm sorry, but your appointment isn't until next Tuesday."
I gaped. I sputtered. My eyes were as huge as a Precious Moments figurine's. "But your scheduler filled out this card! I didn't write down that date, she did! I-I found childcare! I finagled this freakin' boot into the car! I drove to your office! I had really high hopes that the podiatrist would tap her magic wand to my heel and fix it, or at least jab me with a horse needle full of some anti-inflammatory concoction!" I waved the appointment card, hoping she would see that Willy Wonka golden shine.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, it's next Tuesday. The doctor doesn't have any openings today."
"A POX ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES!"
Okay, I didn't really shout that. I thought it, along with a few un-printable words (because I run a relatively family-friendly show here).
My boot and I mustered as much dignity as we could and hobbled out of the podiatrist's office.
After that debacle, Dear Reader, I need to go to my happy place. Care to join me?
Puppies. Rainbows. Unicorns. Bubblebaths. Argh ... this isn't working!
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3 Witty Rejoinders:
Oh, I'm SSSOOOOO sorry! I'm sure you and the boot will look back on this one day and laugh.
You're probably right, Diana. It's just so frustrating right now ... but time moves fast when you have little ones in the house, right?
Ugh, I feel for you, my friend. I hated that thing!
I had a boot about 5 years ago for a stress fracture. At the time, I belonged to a gym that had a sadistic feature attached to their machines, namely, the little personalized TV would cut off if you stopped working out. Unf, I came upon a America's Next Top Model marathon, so I ended up running for like 2-3 hours straight.
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