8th September 2005

I am sitting on the cushy table at the gynecologist’s office. I know the table is cushy because there is nothing between me and the table. That is, nothing but a thin sheet of paper that crinkles when I shift. I have another such sheet draped awkwardly across my lap.

It feels odd sitting like this, in my long-sleeved shirt, my earrings, my lip gloss, and my paper lap throw. Of course, I’ve been here before, and I like my nurse practitioner. Her demeanor suggests that the gals do this kind of thing all the time, sit around with no pants on making chitchat about how the writing is coming, and whether this breakfast place is preferable to that.

She has her back to me for a few moments, checking my chart, and then she turns to me suddenly with a surprised face.

Are you humming?


Were you just humming? Just now?

I guess I was.

Is that a nervous thing?

No. I talk when I’m nervous.

Do you hum a lot?

All the time, I guess. I don’t usually realize I’m doing it.

Huh. That’s kind of nice.