Perfect – October 1, 2020

NSFW: Language, innuendo. ageism.

“How do you identify yourself?” asked the young lady reading the health profile questions to me, obviously concerned that not of her generation, I might be unable to read or understand the complex medical questions. She waited upon my reply, ballpoint pen at the ready to record my answer.  If, that is, she didn’t first have to explain the question to the old duff seated in front of her.

This crotchety old duff, sick to death of the asinine assumptions about the sanity, knowledge, social awareness, and physical abilities of ‘old people,’ figured to take a run at getting her goat.  I admitted it was not gonna be a fair contest. Her attitude pissed me off such that I didn’t frankly give a shit for ‘fair.’

“Well, I generally look in my wallet first thing when I wake up.”

“What, sir?”

“Still got a driver’s license.  Got my name on it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Answers your question.  One day, I did mistakenly get my wife’s billfold.  Went the whole day thinking my name was Susan.”

“Sir…”

“You want me to answer a question, ask a question that makes sense.”

“About your sex, sir.  How do you identify?”

“Sex or gender?  You folks have this idea there’s a difference. How I identify is recognizing what I got. Simple as that.” 

“Okay sir.” [Deep sigh]  “How do you describe your sex?”

“Pretty good, all things considered.  Usually about five times a month.  Six, if the missus feels spunky.”

“Sir!”

“You mean to ask me what my birth sex was?”

“Yes.”

“Then ask that.  Don’t be beating about some crackbrained politically correct bush.”

“So?”

“So what?”

[Frustrated sigh] “So what was your birth gender or sex, however you want to call it?”

“Same as it is now.  Unless you want to get into that psyche-identity bullshit.”

“That I guess, is the next question.  First, what was your birth gender?”

“Far as sex goes, I was born male.  If you can’t tell, one or the other of us has some serious issues to address.”

“Um.  Perfect.  Thank you.  Next question.  Do you self-identify as some gender other than your birth gender?”

“Ah, now the psyche-sex bullshit.”

“Sir…”

“Male.  Same as now. Sex and gender all the same.” 

“Perfect.  Thank you.”

“All the ladies say that.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, you either get it or you don’t.  You don’t.”

“Oh, I see. You suggest the ladies find you, um, attractive.  Apparently, you like the ladies too?”

“Some.  Always have.  Even married, I still admire an attractive woman.”

“Why, thank you, sir.”

“Didn’t mean you.”

“Sir?  You don’t find me attractive?”

“Not exactly.  That’d be because I find you, um…”

“Not your type?”

“No.  I find you ugly.”

“That’s unkind, sir!”

“Not really.  It’s what you’d call truthful.  You did ask at the onset that I answer your questions honestly.”

“Yes, but, that’s not one of the questions.”

“You asked.”

“Yes, I guess I did.”

“Suspect you have doubts.  Over-compensate with all that jewelry.  Pierced, I reckon?”

“Yes…”

“Well you missed your ears.  Got one of them dingle-dangles stuck in your nose, one in your lip. You maybe need to get someone to help you get dressed in the morning.”

[Heavy sigh and hesitant frown] “We’ll move on.  Medical conditions: do you have diabetes?”

“No.”

“Perfect.  Is there a history of diabetes in your family?”

“Yes.  My dad.”

“Perfect. Type one or type two?”

“Two.”

“Perfect.”

“No.”

“Type one, then?”

“No.  Not perfect. It killed him.”

“No sir, what I meant by ‘perfect’ was…”

“I know what you meant. It’s a bad habit. Like picking your nose. You keep ‘perfecting’ me after each question, I believe I’d rather you pick your nose, or scratch your…”

“Sir!”

“Frankly, it’s offensive.  Like your habit of twirling that pen between your fingers like a miniature baton.”

“I hadn’t realized.  I’ll stop.”

Perfect!”

Published by spwilcen

Retired career IT software engineer, or as we were called in the old days, programmer, it's time to empty my file cabinet of all the "creative" writing accumulated over the years - toss most of it, salvage and publish what is worthwhile.

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