Another conversation with the lone Y chromosome at home.
XX: Did you make the appointment?
XY: What appointment?
XX: The one the doctor told you to make. For a routine colonoscopy. Was there another one you had to make?
XY: Oh that…
XX: Yes, that.
XY: I couldn’t find the post it note with the number on it.
XX: You wouldn’t need the post it note with the number on it if you had picked up the phone when THEY called you to make the appointment.
XY: I was busy. I was in the process of gliding from Panchamam to Dhaiwatham when they called and couldn’t stop to take the call.
XX: (muttering) Deva %^$# *@% sabhathalam.
XX looks for aforementioned post it note and finds it prominently stuck on the fridge with neon colored arrows around it screaming, “CALL!” in bold letters.
Wordlessly points to it.
XY: I need to talk to my manager.
XX: Dude you need to speak to the gastroenterologist. Where does your manager come into the picture?
XY: I need to take a couple of days off for it. So, I need to talk to my manager. I can make the appointment only after I know when I can take off.
XX: And they are going to have an appointment for you on the exact day you take off? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
XY’s brow creases into deep furrows as that excuse goes from 60 to 0 in two seconds flat.
XX: And according to you I’m the one without an ounce of logic in me.
XY: Okay I’ll call and make an appointment tomorrow. They must be closed now.
Tomorrow dawns fresh and clear. And ‘dusks’ stale and murky. No appointment seems to have been made.
The day after dawns rather stormy and wet. Before it ends stormier, an early reminder.
XX: Don’t forget to call.
XY: Oops! I forgot. Calling right away.
XX: (After 2 hours) Did you?
XY: Did I what?
XX: Make an appointment?
XY: Oh that… I’m calling now.
The day does end in a thunderstorm. A mighty one.
The next day dawns…errr…let’s not focus on the weather today. Instead, a new tactic.
XX: You know what, I am not going to do my mammogram till you get your colonoscopy done.
XY: Say what?
XX: I am going to cancel the appointment I made for my mammogram.
XY: Is that a threat?
XX: It could be. Is it working?
It didn’t. Passive aggressive obviously isn’t all it’s hyped up to be.
And so it goes on for the rest of the week. At the end of which there is still no appointment in sight.
Come Monday and XX is all determined to make a great week of it.
XX: (very sweetly) I think I’ll just call them and make the appointment for you. Save you the trouble. How about that?
XY: No thanks. I am perfectly capable of making an appointment for myself. I am not a 3-year-old.
XX bites her tongue in an attempt to continue the pretense of sweetness. She doesn’t want to start the week off wrong. But a few spill words do escape through the sides of her mouth. And not one of them could pass for sweet. Somewhere between scorching hot and acidic on the taste spectrum, rather.
XY: I’ll make that appointment, ok?
XX; Here, hold my tea. I’m going to get a shovel.
XY: Why do you need a shovel? Are you going to knock me out cold and drag me to the gastroenterologist?
XX: I was busy rolling my eyes and they went deep into their sockets. Very, very deep. Now they are embedded in my brain and I need a shovel to dig them out, so I can continue rolling them.
Meanwhile at the back of XX’s mind some gears turn furiously… “out cold…
drug … drag… hmm… maybe that will work. A marriage does have its inspiring moments…”
PS: In case you were wondering about the glide from Panchamam to Dhaiwatham, find it here: