We're All Damaged

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Pregnancy Would Probably Bring Out My Dark Side

I just got back from the doctor’s office. Don’t worry ladies, I’m fine. You see, my wife is seven months pregnant, and so we spend a lot of time there. Well, if I’m being specific, we spend a lot of time in the waiting room. The periodicals there consist of one Sports Illustrated from 1998 and a bunch of magazines that I don’t think I’m legally allowed to read.

When we finally made it into the little room, the same thing happened that always happens. I stood there like a lonely, super-sexy giraffe while a number of very intelligent-looking people tended to my wife. They touched her stomach and took her blood pressure and heart rate.

“How are you feeling?” our doctor asked.

My wife pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good,” she said. “Really good.” Everyone was smiling.

It struck me at that moment that this simple exchange of mundane dialogue is a perfect example of why women are tougher than men—particularly this man, me, Matt Norman. If I were my wife, this is how I would have responded:

“What? Are you f*cking kidding me? How does it look like I’m doing? It’s 100 goddamn degrees outside and I’m carrying around a 25-pound playpen in my stomach, you freaking moron. In fact, just now, while I was saying that, this little monster inside me drop-kicked my spleen. Yeah, that’s right, my spleen! Last night in bed, right after I finally fell asleep, she did the same thing to my bladder. So, I’ll tell you how I’m doing, you grinning a$$hole. $hitty. That’s how I’m doing. Now how about you stop poking me like I’m a goddamn science experiment and do something useful with yourself like going and getting me some motherf*cking ice cream. For the love of God, what was your specialty in med school? Asking dip$hit questions? And you, over there? Nurse What’s-Your-Face? What the hell do you think you’re looking at? Would you like to see a close up of my fist? And why is it so freaking hot in here? Ahhhhh!”

And then, after I left, I’d demand that the poor bastard who married me fan me with a giant feather all night while I lay in a $5,000 massage chair with a cool towel over my head. “You did this to me, you skinny twerp,” I’d yell. “So, keep fanning, ‘cuz mommy’s hot!”

“Well, OK then,” our doctor said, closing her folder with confidence. “Everything’s going just great. I’ll see you guys in two weeks.”

“Bye.”

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