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Forms

When you’re filling out the new patient questionnaire, sitting in the well-appointed but carefully not too well-appointed waiting room of a doctor’s office in a building somewhere disconcertingly near Bloomingdale’s, with the sort of silverjawed elevator banks that each deposit you upon a discrete sector of floors, and fifteen blocks worth of perspiration is drying unbecomingly among your bangs and you get to the question “Do you find your job stressful?“  Already freaking out that you’ve slipped out the door in the middle of the day with your central-air-sweater draped faux-casually on the back of your chair, you sweatily wrangle the ballpoint more firmly between your fingers and emphatically check YES, and then the next line, one with two fucking underlined expanses of space, more even than for family history (oh New York) asks: why.  And you give an apologetic moue to the Vanity Fair’s bound in actual binders, tap the pen against your pointer, your teeth, your thumb, trying to come up with some clinically relevant description of the scientific and existential terror that you belly up to every day, and finally you put nib to paper and write Postdoc. Just, Postdoc,  because for all your writing, your pipetting and your ginsoaked conversations, for all your reading and your talk therapy to the slightly moldy showerhead - that, that is the absolute best that you can come up with.

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6. davetrains said: Silverjawed.
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