I’m a peaceable sort of chappie. I get angry on occasion and have even been known to fight – quite brutally. Like ‘broken bones and dislocated jaws’ brutally. Even then, I am usually the guy who doesn’t let anger blind him and try to avoid fights where I can get beat up.
Since that would entail a) telling the parents and b) going to a doctor to get stitched up.
Of which, I dread b) more.
Telling the parents is relatively easy with a “He started it, what was I supposed to do? Lay down like a wuss?”
Going to a doctor – yikes.
Don’t get me wrong. Doctors are nice blokes – the proverbial kindly healers and I’ve yet to meet one with a bad bedside manner. Unfortunately, I tend to regard them with a bit of awe.
Actually, they scare me. I get tongue tied around the doc and am hard pressed to explain what pain I’m experiencing. I stammer I blush and in general make a fool out of myself. You may call it a fear of making a fool of myself in front of people instead of just doctors, but then, why is it just doctors I’m afraid of? Specially the feminine variety – the young, dashing feminine variety?
For example, take the time I went to see a doctor after a particularly funny fight. The reasons behind the fight were a case of mistaken identity, it’s a long story. The short version, I got bit by a bloke – right on my chest. A rather deep bite, which bled a little and my colleagues got a bit anxious lest I contact rabies or something. I have no idea if that is possible but in the unlikely event their gloomy predictions come true, I consented to visit a hospital. As luck would have it, the only doc there was a ‘Oh my!’ sort of personable popsy I wouldn’t mind being seen on a date with. This is how it went.
Me: Er… Hi.
Doc: Hello, what happened?
Me: I… I got bit.
Doc: Oh, that’s bad. Where did you get bit? In the leg, or on your hand?
Me: Um… actually, I got bit … er… um…
Doc: *raising an eyebrow* where?
Me: *points a finger at my chest*
Doc: Would you mind showing me where?
Me: Ah… sure! *proceed to take my shirt off* Here!
Doc: *Looks at the bite, raises an eyebrow, smiles* Your girlfriend must’ve got pretty excited, I guess.
Me: *without thinking for even a second* actually, it was a guy…
Doc: You’re gay?
Me: No, of course not! *Proceeds with declaration of heterosexuality and a narration of the fight*
Doc: Oh. Most handsome men are gay, you know. You look gay.
I had no answer to that, so I left it at that and got the bite cleaned and taped up, a jab with the needle and shuffled out of the hospital feeling really low at being considered gay by the doc.
Death, where is thy sting.