Hi darling! Welcome to the my journal, my journey about my real life, my heart and my travels photographing beautiful souls! Sit back, have cup of tea and stay for a while and be sure to say hello!
It’s pouring down rain.
I enter the building. The room looks like every Ikea dream come true in one office lobby. I gasp at the room before saying hello. There is a coffee machine nestled in the corner. It motions for me to come closer. “I’m here for my Dr.’s visit.” Or something like that. “Oh, the Dr. is next door.” Out the building into the rain. I look at the coffee machine I no longer have rights too. I wave at it in my soul and walk out the door with a polite farewell. My appointment is through the double doors and I open them to see a display of miss matched soft cushion chairs that have never met IKEA. No coffee machine.
I’m handed a clipboard, the silent hero of every Dr. office. A portable table that fits in your lap. Genius. I have to update my information, again. Somewhere in the land of technology, no office is able to save my name and date of birth. I think of the robot who lives on mars while looking at the stack of papers before me. The amount of paper they must go through helps me understand why Dunder Mifflin was is business. Dwight, the sales rep. I sit in the chair under the large photo of an orchid. Fitting. Katy Perry winks at me from the cover of a magazine on the table. I sneak into the bathroom while my paperwork gets processed. As I exit, an enclosed by a plastic sleeve, written in the swirliest whirliest font is a tiny poem on how to use the bathroom properly.
I exit the over communication chamber and wait for my turn like an adult waiting at the DMV.
They finally call me like I am the chosen one. I’m Katniss as the eyes turn towards me. Hands go up across the room in solidarity. Whistles salute me. I walk back to the machine of weight. They don’t ask me to take off my 44-pound boots. Now they have a very inaccurate assessment. They don’t care. They ask my medical history for 3 days straight. I vaguely remember anything about my life. It’s too cold to think. I shiver as my body wastes away, no hot coffee to heat my hands. The nurse leaves and I realize the lights are dim. Two painting hang on the walls to create a sense of peace. They are lies and do nothing for me. A basket of magazines is on the floor. s A basket of magazines is on the floor. The top one is a cooking magazine. It’s not winking at me.
The Dr comes in like a celebrity I’ve been waiting for in meet and greet room with no snacks. She’s asking all the same questions. I over tell my life just in case one detail is relevant. Turns out, my love of pizza isn’t. She thinks I’m pregnant. I’m not. It’s the boots. I keep taking. She still thinks I am. I’m still not. She needs a test. I go to take it. A new poem is in this bathroom. A more mature one, better font. I wonder who these authors are as I head back to room 2 naming the twins I’m not pregnant with. I start thinking of how I’ll surprise André with the news, what will our gender reveal be like, and how hard it will be to give up wine right now. The Dr comes back. It’s negative. I leave the still raining office thinking about all of the people who didn’t give up on their dreams to make my visit possible, mainly the bathroom poets. Did hater hate as they pursued their dreams? I’ll never know, but I do know one thing, more offices should offer free coffee. Don’t you agree?
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