There’s so much that I want to tell Michael, but I’m not sure what to leave in and what to leave out.
You know how it is when you meet someone new. You don’t want to be known as TMI Girl, or Not Yet Over Her Ex-boyfriend Girl, or Owner of Too Many Cats Girl. Still, I’m definitely not You Won’t Believe How Fast She Took Off Her Clothes Girl, so if I am going to get naked for someone then I feel that we should at least get to know each other first.
For instance, don’t ever serve me turnips. Even though my mom taught me that it’s impolite not to eat what someone went to the trouble to cook for you, I will puke those things up faster than a dog that’s just downed ten pounds of chocolate.
Also, although my legal name is Victoria, everyone calls me Vicki. I wonder if Michael prefers to go by Mike? I bet his own mom called him Mikey when he was a little boy. Maybe she still does.
I don’t even own one cat, let alone too many cats. I like to pretend that I’m above chick flicks, but I blubber each and every time I watch The Notebook. I picked up the nervous habit of biting my fingernails the day I stared kindergarten. And I fail to understand the point of this ridiculously thin sheet of paper on your examining table Dr. Michael Haussman, University of Toronto, Class of 2015. I’m pretty sure that any infection that I, or any other naked patient, might have could make its way through this paper if it put up half of a fight. Seriously, I had hoped that this stuff would have gone home with the old fart from whom you bought this medical practise.
Michael – I mean, Dr. Haussman probably doesn’t want to know any of this. He’ll waste no time asking me about my cycle, how many sexual partners I’ve had, and the date of my last pap test, but God forbid he should take a second to find out anything else about the real me.
“Victoria, I’m Dr. Haussman. It’s nice to meet you,” he says as he walks into the examining room.
Asshole. My name is Vicki. You’d know that if you took the time to get to know the real me.