On my last visit to the RE office, I had a bit of time to kill in the waiting room. Which is suprisingly odd, as the practice seems to run with amazing efficiency. In browsing through the plethora of periodicals, discarding Time & Newsweek in favor of something sure to titillate me, I settled on a popular glossy entertainment magazine.
Before I was even able to get to the page that told me why "Brittany Is So Excited To Bear Kevin's Baby" and "Is Brittany Having Twin Boys?", I was stopped by the address label in the lower right hand corner.
I've found, in visiting many doctor's offices, health clubs, etc., people tend to tear their own address labels off before donating the magazines to the greater good of a waiting room. This one had label intact, and yes, it belonged to my RE's wife. Or daughter, who knows.
At that point, I'd never really thought about his life outside of the office, and more importantly, beyond treating me. I'd seen a photo of he and his wife, framed on his bookshelf, but never gave it more than a passing glance.
I conspiratorially memorized the address on the label, which was easy, because one of the words in the address could be twisted around to resemble another word that refers to sex. Of which I do not remotely associate with Dr. M.
I was certain that he must live in the fanciest of fancy neighborhoods, decorating his house and buying fancy cars with the dollars that J and I shell out month after month. I'd imagined all sorts of lavish living, overzealous spending, and other eccentricities. Early in our relationship, I'd already spent hours Googling Dr. M to no avail. No info, few articles, lots of referrals to his website, but overall zilch.
When I returned home after yet another unsuccessful procedure, I went straight to MapQuest. And imagine my surprise when I found that he lives in a lovely, but not over-the-top neighborhood. I was kind of disappointed not to find out more scoop.
Maybe when I do a drive-by...
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