[dropcap]D[/dropcap]octors aren’t perfect. Last week, my doctor prescribed me a women’s fertility medication by accident, instead of an antibiotic. No joke. But it wasn’t his fault. His office accidentally called in the wrong prescription.
The first day on the meds: I noticed I had a stronger sense of smell, and had the strange desire to watch episodes of Designing Women.
Second day: I was a little grumpy, and my pants didn’t fit.
Day three: the medication kicked in with full feminine-power. I woke up hungry, and my nipples hurt.
Jamie asked, “Do you want some eggs for breakfast?”
I misheard her. I thought she called me a “miserable fat-ass.”
The next day, things went from bad to worse. I had cramps like I was about to give birth to a litter of goldfish. I also laughed for no reason, then cried. Then laughed again.
After which, I cried.
So, I drove to Krispy Kreme. I plowed through a dozen glazed donuts with both hands. Then, I returned home to watch Steel Magnolias on television. Afterward, I cried in the shower until we ran out of hot water.
Before bedtime, I cranked our thermostat down to forty degrees and redecorated the living room. Twice. That was the final straw, Jamie insisted I go to the doctor.
“What seems to be the problem?” the doc asked.
I sighed. “Things aren’t good.”
“Oh? Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”
It took me a few minutes to stop sobbing.
“It’s my wife,” I said. “She doesn’t pay attention to me. And I feel fat.”
So, he wrote me a new script.
For a pap smear.