Page 1 of Stuck with You
Part I
1
“So how are the puppies,” Dr. Riley asks, an obvious attempt to make small talk and distract me from the very uncomfortable fact that she’s sticking a very cold steel contraption up my wha-hoo.
I stare at my polka-dot sock clad feet pressed against the cold stirrups. “Um… they’re… good,” I reply, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that she’s now sticking a super long Q-tip in my sacred place — I hate pap smears but they’re a necessary evil. “Abby’s her moody self as usual, and I caught Baxter in my shoe closet again.”
She laughs. “Oh, did he do any damage?” she asks with concern.
Now I’m not only uncomfortable, but also peeved at the memory. “Oh, yeah. He destroyed my new studded T strap pumps.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Oh my…”
“They were my favorites,” I tell her, making sure she understands the gravity of the situation.
She shakes her head as she wipes me up with an oversized paper towel. “I don’t know how you young ladies walk on those heels.”
I smile. I love the fact that in her eyes, I’m still young. “Well, I’m no spring chicken,” I point out as I sit up. “As you know, I’m pushing thirty-seven.”
“That’s young,” she says. “And you look great.”
I swing my legs over the examination table and stare down at my very unfashionable paper dress. “Thank you… I needed that. I’ve been feeling like an old hag lately.”
She takes a seat across from me, plops her rear down on her swivel chair. “You’re young and healthy, Corrie,” she reminds me. “Although I’d love to see you put on a few pounds. You lose just one or two pounds and you’ll find yourself officially underweight.”
I blow out a breath. “It’s been tough… with the divorce and all,” I confess. “I have no appetite.” For many women, depression causes weight gain but for me it’s the opposite.
Her eyes are full of concern when she asks, “And you’re still sure you don’t want to look into a mild antidepressant?”
I nod. I’ve been on happy pills before but the side effects weren’t worth the slight rise in my mood. “No, I’ve been doing everything you suggested. Exercise… seeing my friends. I even took up art,” I tell her. “My friend, Gabbie, lent me some of her supplies.”
Dr. Riley’s face lights up. “I’m glad to hear it. You’ve been through a lot. Divorce is not an easy process… I should know.” Her smile falls. “And infertility is crushing, and the fact that you’ve decided not to have children… that’s a tough thing to accept. You need to mourn the loss of those children, even if they never existed.”
A painful lump slides up my throat threatening to break me apart. The last few times I’ve been in Dr. Riley’s office, I’ve balled my eyes out. I’m determined not to lose it this time. My voice cracks at the edges when I say, “Thank you, Dr. Riley. I really appreciate all you do for me.”
“It’s my pleasure, Corrie.” She shoots me one of her bright contagious smiles. “Keep in touch.” And then in a flash, she’s out the door — busy lady.
I scramble back into my clothes; skinny jeans, red peep-toe heels and a flowy silky white top. I love June, when you can start wearing spring and summer styles. I grab my red purse and hurry out of the office, so glad to be done with my appointment. I wave bye to the receptionist as I leave the doctor’s office.
About a dozen people are waiting for the elevator — it’s a busy Wednesday. When it finally pings and opens, we all hurry inside. I’m shoved and squished at the rear, my face pressed against the back of a giant man. I always feel like a kid in elevators — everyone towers over me.
The elevator stops at another floor. “Is there room?” a woman asks.
“No there isn’t!” I want to scream, but of course I don’t. As she wiggles in, the giant man presses harder against me, flattening my face, his big behind a bulky shelf for my tiny breasts. The last time I was this close to a man was when I last had sex with Jacob — forty-eight days ago. I don’t know why I’ve been counting the days. I suppose I’m having a tough time getting over my soon-to-be ex.
The elevator dings again. I hear a man’s voice. “Can ya’ll let me squeeze in?” I roll my eyes as I get flattened even more. A tin of sardines is what we are.
When the elevator dings once more, I worry I might lose my mind — we can’t possibly fit another soul. “You reckon you have room for a little old lady?”
“Nooooo,” I call out. “For the love of God, we can’t fit you in, lady. Sorry.”
Oops… did I say that out loud?
“Sorry,” a man says apologetically and as the doors close slowly, a heaviness fills the elevator. Still pressed against the giant man’s back, I can still spot the evil eyes people are shooting me.
C’mon, people.
But seriously, why do people insist on shoving into elevators, no matter how cramped they are?Room for one more?
