I went to the doctor yesterday for a physical. I’m making yet another feeble attempt to get my driver’s license and need to renew my permit, so I needed to get the doc’s signature on the form. I’ve also been getting pressure to get regular check ups from my parents now that I have cancer in my immediate family history.
I had to wait in the waiting room for about an hour and a half, which kind of pissed me off because a) at least three drug reps came in and out b) I took the day off of work because I had to do some training downtown in the morning for my internship and after my appointment, the dudes and I were going to do something fun, like go to the zoo or something and c) my iPhone’s battery was running low and they only had one old copy of Redbook and a bunch of AARP and WebMD magazines. With nothing to keep my attention, I listened to a lady talk about something on her foot that needed to be “ground down” and tried to keep from dry-heaving.
All is well in Corpus Kdiddy. I have to get some blood work to check on my anemia and in just five years I get to start having colonoscopies! Oh joy!
Thinking about such things coming up on the medical horizon made me feel weird. I know that it’s not uncommon to find yourself reeling at aging. Not that I consider myself “aged.” But I’m firmly an adult with adult concerns and I seriously think there was a mistake in someone’s math. I feel SO young. I mean, physically, I think I feel about 30, but mentally I feel about 12, tops.
Since it was later in the day, the husband and the baby and I tried to salvage what was left. We grabbed a quick bite to eat in Oakland, then scuffed our feet for a few minutes trying to figure out where to go. We were going to hang out in the park but it started to rain and with our options quickly dwindling as the hour crept past four and our clothes quickly dampening, we ran into the museum.
By the way, I think doing the museum in small chunks is the way to see it. There’s SO much housed there and it really deserves more than a speedy walk-through once a year.
We ran up those huge stairs and started at the Digital to Daguerreotype exhibit. We strolled through, taking our time and really took in each photo.
One in particular caught me. It was by Garry Winogrand from his Women Are Beautiful series and was from New York City in 1969.
Two women, both with very dark hair, stood on the corner with a little boy in between them. One woman was heavily pregnant, her belly low, forcing her back to sickle. She was patiently hailing a taxi and though she appeared calm, I could sense how uncomfortable she was, how much she probably just wanted to get home and put on comfortable clothes, eat something weird even though she knew she would just barf it up later.
Behind the two women, two little girls who had the same dark hair played pat-a-cake. They were small, light, unaffected. Even though they had been walking around as much as their moms, they had far more energy, so much so that they had to keep physically moving to keep from getting bored while waiting for the taxi.
The more I looked at the picture, the more the little girls didn’t seem real. It was like they were the shadows of the little girls that the mothers once were. And the mothers probably felt their little girl selves back there, gleefully following them around, unaware of the heavy belly and the swollen breasts and the hot New York City afternoon that was in their future.
Occasionally my little girl self bumps into my reality when I’m trying to figure out how to make it financially, how to raise a good man, how to take care of my body. She boggles at my life and then goes back to playing pat-a-cake.