I’m Not Bougie

17 Apr I’m Not Bougie

My brother’s girlfriend called me a bougie b*tch.

That isn’t the story here. Ain’t got sh*t to do with this, but I just thought that I should mention.   

“There is a lot of beauty in this city,” Allan said. “As you know, and now, I think you’re getting to see the,” he paused, “coldness of this place.”

“I don’t want this things to dissuade you from what your life could be here.” He’s been more of an ambassador for New York than I have lately.

I’m thisclose to saying goodbye to all that.

I’ve been having chest pains. I have an active imagination, so immediately thought that I was having a mild heart attack and relayed the dramatics to my boyfriend who has a big boy job in healthcare.

Taking things into his own hands—suddenly, I’m an old black man scared of the doctor (y’all know we avoid them)—he made a few appointments for me.

My first one was with an internist. Armed with my ID and insurance card, I filled out my paperwork trying to ignore the fact that there wasn’t a coat rack and the waiting room looked like it was under construction.

A nurse pulls me from the waiting room to hand me a vial and a key, directing me to leave the office, head to the bathroom, pee in the cup and return to the office where she will be waiting for me.

I’m really trying here. I still am holding my coat, my bag, and now a vial I am to pee in.

“I’m at the doctor’s office,” I text my mom. “It’s kind-of not nice, but beggars can’t also be barely insured.”

“True! Better than nothing,” she responded.

I return with all my belongings and the vial wrapped in a paper towel. She directs me to drop it (myself) in a back room and go into an examining room. Thinking I’m to follow her, I do, into a separate room, until she points that I am to be in the room with my name written on a yellow post-it on the door.

But, of course.

I’m wearing a beret, a striped shirt, a pleated faux leather skirt, thigh high socks and over-the-knee boots with my Zara parker with the fur around the hood. She directs me to take off everything but the skirt, put on the robe, and wait for the doctor.

This is where things go array.

The doctor comes in (she’s a brown woman, yes!). She asks me a few questions, pokes me a bit, listens to my heart, and says that we can run a few tests to get to the bottom of the pain. She leaves and comes back.

When she comes back, a man, without knocking, opens the door and stands there for a beat longer than I’m comfortable with, considering that the doctor is helping me back into my robe.

“Who was that?” I ask incredulously. “The stenographer, he’s going to run some tests.”

Oh, well, now that he’s just about seen my boobs, let’s get on with it (not).

Let me tell you, this stenographer, showed me that I am my mother’s child. But, I’ll continue with the story.

I pull my socks and boots on, following the doctor out of the room, where the stenographer, who still doesn’t introduce himself to me, leads me out of the office, across the hall, to a room divided by curtains.

“I’m to go back there?” I ask, motioning to the closest curtain.

Once back in his little corner with the machinery, he tells me to lay down, take off my bra, and move my hair off of my neck.

I don’t like his tone but, again, I’m trying.

“Like this?” I lift my hair off of my neck and lay back. “No.”

“Sir, I’m not really sure what you’re looking for me to do. Could you explain what’s about to happen?”

“A sonogram.”

“On my neck?”

“What did you learn in school?”

“Sir, there isn’t a reason to be snippy with me, I would just like to know what you’re doing.”

“You people don’t learn anatomy in school?”

All this is happening while he’s loudly and abrasively, squirting cold sonogram gel on my neck, before using his machinery.

I take a really deep breath. “I’m not sure who ‘you people’ are but I didn’t go to medical school, surely I learned this in high school but in college I studied broadcast journalism. Is there someone else who could perform this procedure?”

“Why?”

“I think you’re being unnecessarily snarky to me and I’m not sure why. I just want to know what you’re doing.”

One more ‘you people’ and Eugenia came all the way out of me. I removed his hand from my neck, sat up, clutching together that ugly robe, and asked for a paper towel.

“I’m not going to sit here and let you talk to me like this. All I wanted to know what you were doing, if that is too much for you to explain, I don’t need to be here.”

I wiped that slime off of my neck, threw the paper towel in the trash, and stomped out into the hallway, the bra flying behind me.

As I’m leaving, I bump into two nurses. “Who is that man, back there? He’s really rude and I don’t want him touching me.”

I could feel myself getting upset. This is usually where my mom would come in and check this man. I don’t care that I’m 28 and still want my mom to come with me on doctor’s appointments.

I don’t think it’s out of the ordinary to want to know what’s happening and who’s doing what to your body, and I said as much when I reported him to his manager. The manager said I wouldn’t be charged for the visit, which is comical, because we didn’t really get to do much before ole meany with his brash beside manner ruined the experience.

Wearing: Beret from a Random Street Vendor in Paris// J.Crew Striped Shirt// H&M Faux Leather Pleated Skirt// American Apparel Thigh High Socks// Zara Over-the-Knee Boots

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I don’t mean to sound all huffy but I have certain standards and I don’t think that makes me bougie.

And those chest pains? Less to do with stress and more to do with my diet. Too much coffee, red wine and spicy food.

Adventures of the (barely) insured.

Yay, America?