This is a story about an old man sitting in the doctor’s waiting room thinking about scones. I know this story well.
There were 30 empty seats plus mine in that room. I felt slightly lonely. I wondered if someone else would come in. If they did, I figured said newcomer would ask me what I was thinking about, because I don’t like that, since I never have an interesting thought, at least not one I’m willing to admit to.
But this time, I was ready, for I knew when I got home Helen would have coffee and scones ready, so I would answer the inquisitive stranger: “I am thinking about whether I prefer cinnamon or oatmeal scones. There really is no question. I like oatmeal best, but my wife prefers cinnamon, so I maintain the myth that I like them equally, since I want to keep her happy, since she is the one who bakes the scones, and equal liking is only a venial lie, for I do like them both. In fact, it is fair to say that while I do have regrets, none of them involves cinnamon scones.”
Then a total of five people came and checked in and spread out onto the empty seats and not a one of them asked me what I was thinking, which was rude of them and disappointing to me.
Do not ask for whom the phlebotomist came, for she came for me. I asked her what she intended to do to me, for I tend to get phlebotomists and lobotomists confused, one with another, and I wanted to be sure which she was, which I explained to her, in lieu of the scones soliloquy which by that time I had memorized. When I left, I thanked her for not giving me a lobotomy, to which she replied, “Or perhaps I did and you don’t remember it.” [As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.]
This is a story about an old man sitting in the doctor’s waiting room thinking about scones. I know this story well. At least I thought I did. Now, though, I wonder if the botomist replaced my memory with that of someone else in that waiting room. But I think this cinnamon scone I am eating might be a clue…