At your service, Dr. Boobology

I am on my way to Bordeaux for my medical visit, a seemingly useless procedure that is needed for my carte de sejour and my ability to stay in this country, when I remember for the first time why I came back to France.

Stepping off the train, navigating through the wide streets filled with stretches upon stretches of people, I am filled with a joy I cannot explain. The café to my left with its long, red awning looks straight out of Amelie, and everyone who walks by me is attractive and my age. No more high school students or old grannies. Finally, I am reminded as to why I was so set on coming back to this country. The air fills my nostrils—a smell with no particular depth or characteristics—and I am so happy I could burst wide open.

But I save my enthusiasm for later. Right now, I’ve got to push my boobs up against a machine.

But I save my enthusiasm for later. Right now, I’ve got to push my boobs up against a machine.

I still remember, with horror, my first medical visit back in the day in Marseille. I was a naïve little thing with limited French skills and a body holding 15 extra pounds that had never been seen by a man. I was in a small group in the waiting room of a nondescript doctor’s office, waiting for the dreaded medical exam. Most of us were first timers, but we had heard the rumors. There was going to be nudity involved.

First, they took us one by one and weighed us. They narrowly fell short of shouting out our pounds to everyone in the room and instead wrote the offensive number in large scribbles on our medical sheet that we would have to carry shamefully throughout that day.

Next, we met with a doctor one on one who listened impatiently to our medical woes—that is, if you could actually manage to explain them in a language you barely understood. A check of the throat, a thump on the belly, and you were on your way. And finally, the dreaded x-ray.

I walked into the room alone, horrified to find that the only other person in it was a young, attractive guy my age, waiting for me by the x-ray machine.

“Hello,” he says, unenthusiastically. He has done this all before. “Please take off your shirt and approach the x-ray machine.” Please what? Do what with my shirt? It’s all been in French and I don’t know what’s going on. Surely he didn’t just ask me to remove my clothes in front of him. “Take your shirt off,” he says once again. Am I being sexually harassed? I look around frantically, but of course there is no one there. “This is ludicrous!” I think to myself. I do as I’m told and reluctantly take off my bulky t-shirt that is disguising my sagging, un-toned belly. I start to walk towards him. “No, no,” he stops me, dead pan, “you must remove your bra too.” “What?” I say. This can’t be true, so I ask him again. I definitely don’t know the word for bra and even if I did, I definitely don’t think that I should have to remove it. “Your bra,” he repeats, looking bored and annoyed, and probably wondering why I am being such a prude, “you have to take your bra off too.” “Oh…okay,” I say, frantically. I rip it off and walk up to the x-ray machine, my face getting hotter and hotter with every step. Never in my life have I wanted to die more than in this moment. “Please place yourself against the x-ray machine,” he says.

I squash my boobs against the cold metal sheet and wince. My eyebrows shoot up as my lips purse together. I can’t remember the last time I have felt this mortified and confused.

The guy goes into the side room and clicks a button, then comes out to tell me it’s over. I walk back to my clothes, head hung low, with a little frown on my face. My only comfort is what a great email this is going to make later.

Here in Bordeaux, the scene is much different. This time, I am alone. This time I am thinner. And both of these qualities make me the prime example of someone who is about to get hit on.

I never quite get his name, but I think it’s something like Aromond or Moronand, or something. Later, I glance at his medical chart and notice a name I never remembered hearing.

The minute I walk into the room, this attractive black man, who looks so much like my friend Itwi that I have to stare to make sure it’s not him, is sitting there. And looking at me. And I have to say, I don’t mind. After 6 weeks in isolation with only the odd 18 year old high school student to catch my eye on the bus to work, I am happy to get a little male attention.

“What time is your appointment?” He asks me. Very nice lead in. “One-thirty,” I say, with my tight “tough city girl” face. “Me too,” he smiles. His smile is wide, showing glowing white teeth.

Soon, he is sitting next to me, his pin-striped mauve shirt rippling over his small, tight body. As we talk, I realize that he is not creepy at all. Normally, my first instinct to being chatted up in a doctor’s office waiting room is to be wary. After all, when was the last time I hit on a cute guy in any establishment that wasn’t under the loose social rules of a bar or restaurant? Never, that’s when.

I find out that Morand or Arnaud—or whatever his name is—is from Burkina Faso and working in a small town near Perigueux, known for its prunes. Turns out, he completely identifies with my situation and is so nice about it that I gladly give him my email when he asks for it. He’s nice, he’s cute and he has a car. Maybe this is the guy Toni had told me about in my psychic reading?

We share a few glances as we go in and out of our respective visits with the doctor. First, I go in for the x-ray, what I have been waiting for all day. My technician is a young, sweet woman, who tells me to take off my clothes in a backroom and walk up to the x-ray machine. I see some things haven’t changed in France. I criss-cross my arms over my boobs in a feeble attempt at personal privacy.

“Now, press yourself up against the machine,” she says, “be careful, it will be a little cold.” We both smile, me more awkwardly than her.

After, I go back and sit in the waiting room chair, and chat again with Mr. Burkina Faso.

But when I leave my visit with Dr. Smoker’s Breath (ironic), my new friend is gone. I lag behind for a few minutes, asking questions of the women at the front desk, slowly putting on my jacket near the door. But he never shows up. It’s hard to say what happened, where the miscommunication took place. But he is definitely gone.

I leave the office and go out to lunch by myself. I half hope my new friend will pop out from a corner to say hello. But the other part of me isn’t so trusting of a random guy I have just met. By the time I reach the train, my emotions have somewhat met in the middle. Which I guess is good, since I get home later to find that I have not received any email from him. And days later, there is no word from him either. So once again, I am on my own with this whole “friends” thing.