It sits in my drawer. Someone won. I just completed my morning toilette – that’s French, folks, for washing and dressing, look it up. Marie Antoinette had lots of help with this, but I have no time for frilleries. (If that’s not a word, I don’t care). The point is, I used my toilette time not to focus necessarily on my appearance, but to fantasize about winning.
All I have to do is reach over and pull the handle of my desk drawer and take it out. Pulling up the website, entering the numbers, and comparing my ticket would only take a few moments. Then I’d know. Chances are, I didn’t win. I’m not an idiot. However, someone did win, and I’m in the pool of contenders.
I shared a wise saying with my daughter many years ago which applies to this scenario. The diaphragm doesn’t work in the drawer. It wasn’t Confucius who said this; it was my gynecologist. I snap-shotted that moment way before Instagram was invented. Sitting across from him in his office, a big o plastered on my mouth, the nugget of wisdom went straight to my hippocampus.
I share this tidbit of horse sense a lot, but many people just don’t see the simple beauty in it. I can’t imagine why. As it happens, my Dallas gynecologist and I shared many other moments of curious chitchat. Not all gynecologist offices are created equal. This guy, my favorite by far, would always spend time with me after my appointment in his office. He behind his desk with a pipe, me, decompressing from the exam, thankfully fully clothed, we’d converse about our lives. It was comforting, in an odd way. The man took an interest in my life and I’d been his patient for many years. At one point in time, he expressed confusion about my dating relationship, with my now, husband, George.
“You’ve known him for eight years. You’ve dated for four years. You’ve been living together for two years. Why aren’t you getting married?”
I shrugged, my face red at the confession. “I don’t know. He hasn’t asked.”
He nodded knowingly and pulled over his prescription pad. I watched as he wrote something then tore the paper off the pad and handed it to me. I reached over and grabbed it. He’d written, “A guy could do worse.”
“Give that to him,” he nodded deeply.
Amused, I nonetheless stopped to consider if the glowing recommendation lacked a bit of sunny enthusiasm. Presented later to unsuspecting George who whipped the script out of my hand with a “what now” look on his face, I wish I’d kept the prescription and framed it. Or maybe inserted a copy into our wedding invitation. Obviously, George took his advice, but that is a story for a different time.
The point is….the man had a knowing for things. And the diaphragm really doesn’t work in the drawer. If I want to win the lottery, I need to participate. Maybe I’ll check the numbers now. If I win, I won’t post this, I’ll be in Mexico, on a beach. Or maybe I should give more thought to the Caribbean, on an extremely large sailboat, my George at the helm. Hmmm, it’s nice to dream.