I'm going for shock treatment today. Once a year at my podiatrist I must undergo a procedure where some guy, not my doctor, places the tip of a jack like instrument all over my foot to see how badly diabetes has affected my nerves. I know the little shocks are coming, but I can't really prepare myself. It's not like I'm screaming in pain. The whole thing takes five minutes. A machine displays data which is given to my doctor who never tells me the results. Frankly, I've reached the point where I don't want to know anymore.
The only good aspect of this visit is being offered coffee, tea or hot chocolate from their coffee machine. That baby is a marvel of modern technology, producing no coffee grounds. As I sip away, I grab a few cookies, close my eyes and imagine I'm in a spa. I hate leaving the office. The other patients are chatty and look in worse shape than me. The magazines leave something to be desired, but both the doctor and his receptionist bought my book, Twilight People-Switchblade Stories. I can't imagine what it's like spending one's life examining feet, but he lives in a wealthy suburb, has a good marriage and seems relatively happy. Maybe he secretly watches his patients being foot shocked. Hell, I would.
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