Today I went to see the doctor about my lower back pain and the numbness in my foot. It seemed rather routine.
She took my blood pressure, told me to stop drinking coffee and try celery juice instead, gave me a prescription and some exercise routines, and then as we were wrapping up, she asked me what my husband did and what I did before becoming a stay-home parent.
Oh, I sang opera.
My doctor gets very excited and starts telling me about another opera sining patient of hers who sings with the Symphony. And then she asks me to sing for her. Just a few bars.
Um… okay… I don’t know why I said yes. Maybe because she reminded me of my old Belarusian roommate.
It was too late to lie my way out and avoid the stares from the waiting room on the way out. So I sang a few bars and she starts crying. Tearing up. Gushing and giving me career advice. Ugh. I hate career advice. If I wanted to sing, I’d be singing.
But I smiled and nodded while plotting my escape as graciously as possible.
And then about 5pm my phone rings. 858… Is it my Dad? I answer. Sounds like Marilu.
Hi Jessica, it’s Dr. Foreign-Last-Name. I have two tickets to the symphony tonight and it’s a choral … If you would like to go?
What!?!? Why did I answer the phone?!?
The worst part is that I FELT BAD for saying I had other plans (which I did).