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From Plaid to Prada: Run-ins, Rectal Exams, and New Romantic Lows

From Plaid to Prada: Run-ins, Rectal Exams, and New Romantic Lows -

After weeks of feeling like a lab rat, my last day concluded with a final consultation with the physician to go over the test results. The night before, my mother sent me a series of uplifting texts, “Make sure you do your hair and makeup tomorrow. Don’t put too much, but don’t go without enough.” If you thought she was going to send me prayers, you are not incorrect. The positive messages pertaining to my health came after the cascade of beauty tips demands.

I decided on a gray sweater dress and gray over the knee boots. Loose waves in my hair softened the full makeup glam. For the first time in weeks of being frozen in Minnesota, I had an extra spring in my step because I was rockin’ my look! I was perpetually cold during the entire stay and no matter how many layers of clothes nor how high the heat was blasting, I was still debilitating cold. I was so cold, I could have sworn my eyeballs froze. Therefore, you can understand the effort it took to be in full glam, meant I deserved a reward for effort.

After my appointments, I had to flush out the three cups of coffee. In typical Jehan fashion, when the ladies’ restroom was empty, I began my quick photo shoot session in front of the full-length mirror. Minutes and about 130 pictures later, I was ready to leave for the airport. As soon as I opened the door and stepped out of the lady’s room, I heard, “Hello!”

Absentmindedly, I glanced up and noticed a tall man in scrubs winked at me. I barely said “Hi” as I breezed past him toward the front lobby.

Maybe I can grab a latte before the shuttle gets here, I thought to myself. I took a sharp left turn and walked down the lobby towards the café. The afternoon rush filled the hall, causing accidental shoulder bumps, but when we are on a mission for coffee, no crowd is too large to stop us from our fix. I wove in and out of pedestrian traffic and reached the coffee counter. From the corner of my eye, a cup of grapes grabbed my attention. As I turned around to grab the fruit, I noticed the tall doctor from upstairs was making a beeline towards me.

I adverted eye contact, hoping he’d forget he had just said hi to me and turned my attention back to the barista. “I’d like a hazelnut latte with almond milk, please,” I said while fumbling for my wallet.

“I have to give this to you,” a deep voice from my left side was heard over the barista’s.

“Excuse me?” I looked up to see the deep blue eyes of mystery doctor.

“Here, take this,” he shoved a note into my hand.

The first word I noticed sprawled in chicken scratch was, “Snapchat.”

“Oh, I’m not on Snapchat–” I began but was interrupted.

“My email is on there. Do you work here? I’m a surgeon.”

“I don’t. I’m not from here, thankfully.”

“Why? Where are you from? How long are you in town for? When are you coming back? Let me take you out for dinner.”

“I would never come back to this God forsaken city! I live in L.A. and my flight is in a few hours,” I said.

“We have time. Let me take you out,” he persisted.

“Thank you that’s flattering but I can’t.” I had forgotten about my coffee at this point. A line was forming behind me.

“Why not?”

“One of the worst things you can ever do to a Capricorn, or to a woman in general, is tell them what to do.”

I finished ordering and excused myself from the line before a caffeine deprived patient threatened my life for coming in between him/herself and their saving grace. When I stepped aside and got a good look at this blue-eyed doctor, his towering height and broad shoulders matched his intimidating presence.

“Email me. Like right now,” he demanded.

“OK, oh my goodness. You’re extremely persistent,” I said.

“Just, email me. Right now.”

One of the worst things you can ever do to a Capricorn, or to a woman in general, is tell them what to do. As I rushed to the main lobby in order to catch my Uber to the airport, I called my mom to give her the update on my last day at the clinic. After an exasperated conversation, my mother needed reassurance that life wasn’t that bad for me.

“Jehan, I wish you would just get married already and move on with your life,” my mother said while inhaling deeply.

“OK, well my life is already perfect. But in other news, this creeper doctor chased me down and gave me his contact information today.”

“A doctor? What kind? Did you call him?” the excitement in my mother’s tone brought back memories of when we used to plan my wedding.

“He said he’s a surgeon, but he was super annoying. Flattering, but really annoying.”

“Why annoying? We are in a desperate situation. We need to take every opportunity we have.” my mother pleaded.

“WE are not in a desperate situation, I am perfectly fine. He lives in this awful city and he’s not Egyptian, so it’ll never work.”

“Jehan, please email him.”

“No.”

“Jehan, please.”

“Mom! No!”

“JEHAN! EMAIL HIM AND STOP BEING ANNOYING!” before I could continue debating with her, I was met with the dial tone.

During the plane ride, once my iMessages connected to the WiFi, my inbox was flooded with demanding texts from my mother.

  • “Did you email the surgeon?”
  • “Why are you always giving me a hard time?”
  • “Remember that time you lost my favorite jacket at the zoo? You owe me for that.” –Reader tip: I was 7 years old.
  • “Jehan, you aren’t young anymore to be picky.”
  • “EMAIL HIM!”

Therefore, I did what every self-respecting adult did, I emailed him and blamed it on my mother.

Subject: Girl w/the cup of grapes

Email: Hey, I’m the girl who bought the grapes! I didn’t catch your name. And I’m only emailing you because my mother is forcing me to.”

I did my duty as an obedient daughter, I thought. I went to bed with a clear conscious and with zero expectation of even hearing back from him. I was happy to be defrosting in Los Angeles and out of the depressing environment. The following day, as the sun beamed through my window, a stark contrast from the blistering winter I had spent two grueling weeks in. I woke up to harmonious sounds of birds chirping and the neighborhood children playing in the yard. Just kidding. I slept for fourteen hours and woke up in a puddle of my own slobber and the cat’s ass inches from my face.

When I scrolled through my emails, I came upon a response from the doctor with a name that makes you believe he belonged in Huntington Beach boardwalk, with cargo shorts from 1995 and a matching muscle t-shirt and mullet. For those not familiar with California, you do not want to be associated with the Huntington Beach boardwalk, circa 1995 fashion, unless you voted for Trump.

See his reply, below,

From Plaid to Prada: Run-ins, Rectal Exams, and New Romantic Lows -

There’s more…From Plaid to Prada: Run-ins, Rectal Exams, and New Romantic Lows -

 

 

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