Keep the glove

It's a fine fucking howdoyoudo when the highlight of your day is an intravaginal sonogram to check and make sure there are NO TUMORS UP IN THIS PIECE. The rest of my Wednesday skittered downhill from there, mostly.

I like the technicians at NY Radiology. They're plucky ladies of a certain age who are as adept as geishas at making small talk while they penetrate you with an implement that--who are we kidding--resembles a Steely Dan. (Waaaaay better than this place, where they make you feel bad about not breeding.)

In my visits there, the techs and I have variously discussed real estate, the Adirondacks, the heat (naturally), and, yesterday, the fantastic new paper robes.

Technically, I'm not sure what kind of material the robes are made from. It's some sort of fiber, like the kind of stuff the more tony boutiques make their shopping bags out of. Robin's egg blue, with very sturdy seams, and best of all, they have a brilliant shape that ensures total modesty: After you put your arms through each hole, you pull a flap of material around and put your right arm through YET ANOTHER HOLE, which keeps the front of the gown totally closed. There's no chance whatsoever of flashing anyone. This is award-winning design. The robes put to shame those metal flippers that allow amputees to run marathons.

So I mentioned to the technician that I really liked the new robe, that it was quite an improvement on the old ones. So sturdy, so accomodating.

"Oh, I know. They're just great. Why don't you take it home? You could reuse it when you need to dye your hair or something."

"Do people really do that? Take their robes home?"

"Sure, why not?" And with that, she slipped a condom on the wand and handed it to me. Springsteen sang "Dancing in the Dark" through a speaker in the ceiling. It was very reminiscent of high school, except I wasn't in the backseat of a 1978 Plymouth Valiant.

A half-hour later, after being thoroughly probed, I was in the changing room trying to decide what to do with the robe. The part of me that obsessively saves grocery bags thought She's right, this could come in handy. The pragmatic part of me debated whether going to a business meeting (at which someone said to me, in all hostile seriousness, "Stop bullshitting me." What am I, a hedge fund manager?) with a disposable examination gown in my purse was such a hot idea. Finally, the neurotic part of me that worries about hurting complete strangers' feelings decided that I should go ahead and take the robe so as not to make the tech think that I didn't like her suggestion.

And now, my medical fetish collection nears completion.