The waiting room at planned parenthood

The waiting is bland in that almost inviting hospital way. Lavender walls with posters warning against the spread of STD's. Posters promoting male responsibility in sexual relationships. posters of earnest women with warm smiles, freckled with slight crows feet and laugh lines. I stare at these upon first entrance, after the narrow staircase from the buzz-in only door that faces the parking lot.

The woman behind the safety glass knows me. We were never really close so we play polite and refuse to acknowledge. After all you never really know why someone is in planned parenthood, except that it is not really your business. At least in the waiting area. There was paperwork about my wife's sexual and medical history. Two long and somewhat daunting pages, front and back. My wife finished and handed the papers in quite quickly (she's always been gifted at homework). We were told to wait, so we had a chat while fidgeting. A blond woman in scrubs opens the door on one end of the room and calls my wife's name. We both get up and head to the exam room. As I reach the door the the (possibly?) nurse informs me i can't come in and I say "okay", but am confused for almost three full seconds as my wife walks in without me. What comes next is not exactly an AH HA! moment. It just sort of washes over me that this is not a hospital. You don't come here for chest cold. There is not box full of rubber toys for the pediatrics patients. This place provides very specific, very private needs.

So I think I know what you might be thinking. Some bleary eyed teenaged girl is filling out paperwork next to me. Choking back a sob with every life changing pen stroke. No there isn't, you sick bastards. There is a middle-aged man sitting on the far opposite of the waiting room wearing red cotton sweat shorts and a t-shirt from some resort island . I didn't catch which one and I don't know if he actually. I just saw palm trees back lit by a Hollywood sunset and just made a guess. The look on his face ranged from weary to angry. His wrinkled brow and receding hairline just gave a general impression of worn out. That could just be me projecting though. As a twenty-six year old with a full head of hair. I probably don't have the best grip on the worries of age. These are side details. The important thing to know is that he came out of the backroom (which I was becoming increasingly more interested in) when my wife went in. He became more and more agitated with every minute. Tapping of the fingers became fidgeting knees, which became pacing.... furious pacing. I was not willing to investigate why.
"Hey bud, why the long horrified face?"
"Waiting on some test results?"
"Good luck sport!"
This is NOT a room that enables comfortable small talk. So, I waited in silence. I watched a pleasant and polite young lady exit the exam rooms and pick up birth control pills.
"No, that's fine ill just put them in the old case"
She said it with a smile and bounced down the stairs. God speed young lady. I stepped out for a cigarette in the parking lot. As I was buzzing-in a young family carrying  two car seats approached. I naturally held the door for them. As they went by I thought "oh crap!" This is planned parenthood. I peeked into the car seats just to make sure they were in fact, filled with children, and not bombs shaped like crucifixes or a deconstructed M-16's. It's babies, you were lucky this isn't Kansas man. You could of died right there.
I followed them in and watched them fill out their paperwork. They were pleasantly chatting with one another as my wife comes out. I say "Hey baby." We go to the counter and then we leave, accomplishing what we set out to do. Which of course is none of your business. After all, you never made it past the waiting room.

  

just starting

So this is my first attempt at this sort of thing.Truthfully the idea of being instantly published is an intimidating prospect. It's like drawing off the hip. React and shoot. Click. Publish. Hope it isn't crap.  So today I'm just going to throw darts and see what sticks the right way.



Target:

My wife and I stopped by target. She needed a new razor and wal-marts are strategically placed to be as far away from the urban core as possible. I, for one, am not really up for driving twenty-five minutes so I can save fifty-five cents on durex and laundry detergent. (Do they even sell condoms at Wal-Mart? I assume they would just hand out pamphlets on the rhythm method.) As we walked towards the razor aisle I turned and witnessed twelve FEET of razors. Which strikes me as insane and unnecessary. But, it has been pointed out to me that the presence of an opinion on "razor aisles" is, in fact, insane and unnecessary. Which is why I keep it to myself. As we step out to the main route I see an end cap for Schicks Fusion Proglide. Sample models are placed inside a glass display case. Lit like diamonds and rotating when sensing motion at an arms length. I was so disturbed by the amount of work put into a product that will be thrown away in a few months (after all it's cheaper to buy a new razor.) I had to take a picture on my cell phone. It looked like the prize out of a heist movie. In my head the lamest Danny Ocean ever was planning his caper. Don Cheadle saying something nervous in a shitty British accent.
Don Cheadle: "Oi mate. I don't like the look of that security blahblah in the northeast blahblah....Blimey! Gor!
Danny Ocean, smirking and punchable of course would get those razors out in the end. After the fun of my fantasy the switch flipped in my head that makes me hate and feel tired. I wanted to wander around but, a set of twin girls standing in a shopping cart rolled by. Hearing them Beg for spongebob tooth brushes from there mother, made me realize staying longer would only depress me. So we left before I could allow myself to feel crushed.