It’s the middle of the day.
I take a long hot shower, wash and condition my hair, finger-comb it into loose waves.
Legs and underarms are shaved then shaved again. My apricot scrub exfoliates all exposed skin, which is then inspected for unwanted hair before being slathered with a rich moisturizing cream.
Heels are buffed and lotioned. Nails groomed. A light cologne spritzed on. I'm ready.
In my 20s, engaging in elaborate female grooming rituals in the middle of the day would mean something GOOD was about to come.
In my 40s, it means I’ve got a different sort of date planned--a chance to sit around (mostly) naked during an hour long visit with my cardiologist.
Here in Europe, doctors don’t leave you in an examining room to change into a gown and return to uncover only what they need to see during the exam. No, everything here is done mostly au natural. Only the doctor gets to wear clothes. It makes me feel like a scientific specimen laid out for study.
Which I guess is what I am. Sigh.
I tell myself I shouldn’t be self-conscious. After all, all doctors have spent years dissecting cadavers, and while I may not look great, I know I look better than anything pulled out of a morgue’s drawer.
I smell better too. And did I mention my close shave?
Sitting (mostly) nude in the doctor’s office, I convince myself my pulse and low blood pressure are beauty assets, my throbbing blue veins contribute to my healthy glow. I try not to dwell on the electrodes, wires, cables, monitors, and sonograms that will evaluate whether I’m a good-hearted person or not. I try not to feel overexposed.
The truth is my heart has a tendency to be irregular. So does my psyche. Sigh. My physical and mental health are synchronized in their imperfections, something that is oddly satisfying and yet disturbing. What doesn’t balance on its own is kicked into its proper place with pharmaceuticals—thank God. May it ever be so.
Still, on the day they can't save me and I land in the drawer of the morgue wearing nothing but a sheet, I hope I have clean hair and shaved legs. A Grrrl without a pulse has to compensate for her imperfections.
September 18, 2006
Update on September 19, 2006 at 3:25 by
V-Grrrl
Because you were wondering:
No, I'm not completely naked; I do get the benefit of wearing a cute pair of underpants. Good thing or they'd never convince me to mount the exercise bike for that stress test.
Unlike in the U.S. where I normally saw my cardiologist for only 5-10 minutes, here I spend nearly an hour with my doctor, which is a long time to sit around (mostly) naked, though as I get to know my doctors better, I am becoming increasingly relaxed about it. I think the reason I hate to be nearly nude has to do with a sense of vulnerability more than it does with modesty. All the grooming rituals distract me from thinking about why I'm at the cardiologists in the first place.
For unknown reasons, I developed a heart arrhythmia in my late 30s. It's the type of problem normally seen in men over 65 who have had one or more heart attacks, not youngish women who are the picture of cardiovascular health. So despite my remarkably low cholesterol and blood pressure, I see a doctor regularly for heart issues.