By lex, on December 6th, 2005
Phase II of the flight physical today. In the room alone with the doctor, the stethoscope and the tube of cold jelly.
Oh, the indignity!
So many things get better in the Navy, as one grows more senior. Your jokes get funnier. You get a nice parking place. Everyone calls you “sir,” and very often they appear to mean it. Which is a tremendous improvement from ensign days, let me tell you. People tend to be nicer in general, even solicitous at times: “Would you care for the VIP room, Captain?”
“Why yes. Yes, I would.”
You could get full of yourself, if you weren’t careful. All puffed up, even. But in a flight physical follow-up on the wrong side of forty, you are not offered the VIP treatment. Oh no, my son, not at all – not if it were ever so. In fact, it begins to appear as though this is how they let the hot air out:
“Elbows on the table, grandad. You know what to do.”
You: Did the fact that your doctor was a fetching lass of some thirty-odd summers do nothing to mitigate the intense position of moral disadvantage you found yourself in, Lex?
Me: It did not, Gentle Reader. To a surprising degree, it did not.
You: Were you at all concerned when the conversation, pre-… well, you know – when the conversation turned to how difficult it could be to be a female flight surgeon in a male dominated world at times?
Me: I will confess to a moment’s Seinfeldian angst at where this might take us, Gentle Reader.
You: Because of the payback potential?
You: Oh, right – it’s still my go. Was it cold in the room, Lex?
Me: Oh so very.
You: And because of that, did you experience any…
Me: That’s quite enough, I think!
So. 364 days and a wake-up.
At least she had small hands.