I made my first trip to Washington Square this Sunday morning to see the arch, to take a couple of photos...to be tempted to jump into the fountain. I believe I would have jumped into the fountain had I not just this morning semi-successfully ironed the only shirt I own that will make SML exclaim, “You’re dressed cuter than me!”

This week hasn’t been particularly fantastic for me, mostly because of that obnoxious heat wave that shat upon the city early this week. I would have obsessed much more about the heat and humidity had I not been nervous about an upcoming appointment with my new doctor, what with all of the examining and questioning of my beverage choices.

Moving to new health insurance is always difficult because you deal with more expensive premiums, you don’t know your doctor or the clinic, and you have to explain to each new doctor that although it says very plainly in your records that you have mild asthma, that you do in fact have deadly asthma. I changed my story a little bit this time and added notes about cousins, moles, and cancer and “Look at how many moles I have, and that coin-sized one on my back? IT ITHCES.”

A couple of scenarios were going through my head at this time, like maybe he was going to laugh and say that my moles looked fine, that this was all in my head. And he sort of did, except that he mentioned he’d just take off the mole instead. “I’m going to do two things for you today: Steroids! And I will take off that mole!”

The steroid shot was fine. I think. I did question him about it as he got closer with the needle. “How exactly will this shot allow me to breathe on a four-mile run?” And as he was preparing another needle, a needle I presume to numb my coin-sized mole, I finally realized: HE’S GOING TO CUT ME.

It was in that moment of terror that I must have collapsed because the only thing I remember next was being startled awake by a man in a lab coat. It was an awkward moment or two before I realized where I was, and an even longer period of time having my pulse monitored and discussing my irrational fears. We mutually agreed to go our separate ways that day, but I suspect I’ll be back in four to six months with a self-diagnosed case of latrophobia.

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