The Closet Creeper and a Visit to the Doctor
Sometimes I do not know when to stop talking. Those who know me well would likely say, “Only sometimes, Natalie?”
I’m a very vocal person, which has its pro’s and con’s.
Plus Side: You always know what I’m thinking.
Down Side: You always know what I’m thinking.
I have been called blunt, rude, hilarious, and awkward. I have never been referred to as a creeper, but the truth is that sometimes, I am a complete creep.
While it is not fair, one is generally only referred to as a creeper if one is:
- Of the male variety
- Overly persistent in giving unwanted attention (think: Bar Scene, North America)
- Sporting a penchant for trench coats.
Since I am not:
- A male
- Decide for yourself
- Of the persuasion to hit on women
- The trench coat wearing type…
I usually just get called weird when I go into full on creeper mode. Which is why I propose this alternative description of a creep:
Someone who knows / remembers details about your life when you:
a) Never told them
b) Don’t know them
Unfortunately, my actions have fallen into both of these categories on numerous prior occasions. Still, that’s not quite the crux of it just yet. The real mark of a creeper is:
Even if the other person does not appear to be enjoying themselves / your conversation, you just can’t seem to bring yourself to stop.
Case in point, last night. We all remember The Wart. Long story short, up until last night, I still had the wart. I had begun to think of it as its own entity, my body its host. When the dermatologist appointments proved futile, I began attacking it with the vigor of a reigning monarch against an invading army.
This sucker was going down if I had to cut it out of my foot myself (which I tried, repeatedly). But before I get too sidetracked, I have already devoted an entire post to the wart, and this is actually about my creeper tendencies.
To recap: me, creeping, wart, failed self-imposed attempts at surgery.
I decided that it was time to go see a podiatrist. Bringing out the big guns. Podiatrists deal strictly with feet (and really, I’m fascinated – how does one feel a calling to this?) No matter. I needed one, and so my mother, ever helpful, led me to Dr. T.
I had actually been to see Dr. T once before, but had failed to save his number. I typed some variation of his very Greek last name into Google, and received quite a few hits in return. God help me, I actually clicked on some of them, and promptly learned way more than I should know about Dr. T, other than that he may harbor a foot fetish. Let me say one more time: Podiatry. Feet, all day long. This one was easy to deduce.
I will justify my actions by stating that I was bored at work. And it’s not like I learned anything inappropriate about Dr. T. I was just able to glean that he and his ex-wife have joint custody of the kids. Two boys.
No big, because in theory, Dr. T would never need to know I know this.
Monday, 5:52 PM: I’m late. I can tell the front desk ladies are non-too-pleased with me. I feign ignorance and smile politely.
5:55: I am led to a chair and instructed to remove my shoes and socks. My feet are sweaty. Mid winter, socks, boots; don’t pretend like you haven’t been there people.
5:56: I really should have gotten a pedicure. This is just abominable.
5:57: I should have removed the errant hairs from my big toe.
6:02: I walk to the front of the office to retrieve a magazine. Barefoot. See: Wart. Walking around barefoot is probably why I am in this predicament in the first place. The front desk ladies glance at my feet and look at my oddly. Apparently walking around barefoot is not acceptable behavior at the podiatrists.
6:04: I’ve barely gotten to flip through the pages when the doctor decides to join me. But I do manage to notice the shirtless picture of Tim McGraw, on page 74 in this week’s issue of People. Tim McGraw has weird nipples.
6:05: I tell the good doctor that I am soon leaving for China, and would like to be departing sans wart. He inspects my right foot, then my left. I don’t think he has a foot fetish. Either that or he hides it very well. Which once more begs the question: why podiatry?
6:06: BONUS! Turns out that odd little thing I couldn’t identify on my left foot is ANOTHER wart.
6:07: He calls in the nurse practitioner, and at this point I lose track of time. It is explained to me that we are going to numb, scrape and cauterize my feet. In other words, we are going to stick long needles into them, use a scalpel on them, and burn them. We are going to annihilate these little suckers.
Two needles were procured, at which point I grabbed the arm of the nurse practitioner and implored, “You have children, can I hold your hand?” I’m pretty sure I left childhood behind at least six years ago, but she kindly obliged. Thank God, because it hurts like hell to make sure I don’t feel anything.
My feet sufficiently numbed, the nurse practitioner leaves, and Dr. T whips out a small blow torch.
Time for small talk.
Most normal people would ask… I don’t know what most normal people would ask, because I’m me, and so I asked,
“How are your sons?”
Dr. T never told me that he has sons. I only know this because I read his court documents. It was still fine, he probably didn’t think anything of it, assumed he had told me at another time. But what do I do?
I miss this logical reasoning, and my brain goes straight to:
YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE HAS ANY SONS.
So I follow with the wonderful, “You never told me you have sons, I only know because I typed your name into Google.”
Shut up, Natalie. Just shut up.
This is what I’m thinking. I actually have this thought. But no. Once it starts, I can’t seem to stop, so I continue, “I had to type your name into Google because I hadn’t saved your number. You’d be amazed what you can find out about someone on Google.”
At this point some working part of my brain has caught up to my mouth, and is telling me to abandon my current course of action. Which means I delve into a long list of all the websites you can use to find information on people, and how last week I found myself on Spokeo, which should really be called Spookeo, because it’s so spooky, and how I’m so good at researching people because that’s what I did for two years at my internship during college.
Then Dr. T says that there are probably documents online that he would rather not be there (i.e. the court document detailing his joint custody) and I try to play this off by saying that I hadn’t seen anything like that and he shouldn’t worry.
He just looked at me, which my brain finally processed as, “Time for a new conversation topic!”
“So are podiatrists real doctors?”