The Yearly Interview

I sat in the doctor’s office, changed into one of those paper gowns that couldn’t clean up an entire glass of orange juice if it spilled.

It was my yearly physical, and I loathed this day. Perhaps it is my general disdain for any buildings that have needles in them (except tattoo needles – obviously, those are fun), or maybe it’s because every time I have a physical, it feels more rushed than a McDonald’s drive through.

My heart sped up as people walked by the barely shut door, anxiously waiting for my doctor to come in so I could get this over with. I hadn’t had the foresight to eat breakfast before my morning appointment, and my stomach was politely letting me know.

“Hello! How are you this year?”

I smiled back at the middle-aged doctor, who clearly used her gym pass instead of placing it on top of her dresser to look at every time she put on socks, as I did.

She went through the motions, asking me how I was feeling and if there was anything new since she had seen me a year ago. Finally, we got to the fire question round of deeply personal questions, and I was reminded just how much of your personal life they need to know.

“Are you seeing anyone? How long have you been seeing this person? I see you turned 30 this year, didn’t you say last year you want kids? Do you still want kids? How many kids do you want? If you were to have a child right now, would that interfere with your school? Did you happen to have a child in the past year you forgot to mention? Did you happen to have two children in the past year you forgot to mention? What would you name them? Where would you send them to school? DO YOU WANT A BABY RIGHT NOW?

I glanced at my watch. “Well, probably not right now, I’ve got class in 45 minutes and I seriously doubt that’d be enough time for the birthing process.”

Clearly my mother had called the office beforehand to spruce up the question period a bit.

I chuckled nervously, now seriously regretting skipping my morning coffee, although this was enough of a wake up call on it’s own.

She proceeded to discuss the apparently limited time I had left for children as she finished up the exam. Soon, I found myself alone in the room again, thrilled to be able to put clothes back on that didn’t resemble something you wrap leftover desserts in.

As I walked through the halls to my class, I thought about all the kid questions. Did I want kids? How many? At 30 years old, I felt like I should know. Most of my friends had children and were already looking forward to having them out of the house.

The past few years have been such a whirlwind that this particular topic wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, and although I’ve never been particularly good with decisions, I’m hoping I’ll just know when the time is right.

I approached a food counter to grab a coffee and donut before I rushed off to class.

“Hi there, what can I get for you? A donut? How many? What kind? Where will you send it to school?”

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