Doctor Sweatpants

 

On Nine March Twenty-Twenty-Three, I hijack my wife Say’s appointment with Doctor Sweatpants. Doctor Sweatpants was my doctor first, so it’s not all that weird. My half-doctor, actually. My full doctor—Doctor Ann—first referred me. We do good work together, I and Doctor Sweatpants. I lose weight. I take care of my ticker. I get some good results. Doctor Sweatpants amuses me. He wears black yoga pants and expensive leather slides. And a lab coat. I love the whole get-up. After a year of seeing Doctor Sweatpants, I convince the wife to give Doctor Sweatpants a try. We share Doctor Ann, too, so why not? She agrees. She struggles not to call Doctor Sweatpants Doctor Sweatpants when she has her first appointment. At the conclusion of that consultation, she knows where Doctor Sweatpants grew up and the names of his wife and children. They share some things in common and compare notes about Mexican and Puerto Rican fathers. She cannot believe how little I know about my athleisure–wearing island-son physician Doctor Sweatpants! Doctor Sweatpants puts her to work just like me, and just like me, she does a good job. This appointment I hijacked was to discuss her success and next steps. Doctor Sweatpants appointments don’t come easy. He’s a busy guy. His waiting room feels like the bridge of a Bauhaus spaceship—all that black leather and walnut and glass! Say brings me along to the fancy Near North Side office because she doesn’t know what else to do with me. I keep almost burning down the house! I’m so, so addle-minded. In addition to stove and oven privileges, I’ve given up my car keys. I’m sleeping no more than an hour a night, and my chest feels tight. I’m crying all the time for no reason. When Doctor Sweatpants examines me, I fixate on the pen in his lab coat pocket. I interrupt him to talk about it. I say, I didn’t hear what you just said because I am admiring your Montblanc pen. He packs a Beatles Special Edition rollerball, and it’s a looker. Through my tears, I tell him I inherited my father’s Meisterstück Classique, a gift from his mother and father upon his graduation from law school at the age of forty. I mean, he didn’t leave it to me, I tell him. My brothers just thought it was a knick-knack, something worthless. So now it’s mine. Despite my state—I’m crying-laughing through all of this—I feel good talking about luxury pens with my bosom buddy, Doctor Sweatpants. He wants to proceed with the examination, so I tell him about all the people on LinkedIn and Reddit I’ve been talking to late at night and the arguments I’ve started and my complete lack of interest in food and sex. We also discuss my newfound creativity, something out of all of this I’ve welcomed. You should see the work I’m doing, doc—the best I’ve ever done. Objectively good. Everyone sees it. Doctor Sweatpants catches me eyeballing that pen of his as I explain how I’m using all my new energy on a special after-hours initiative to revolutionize my industry and win all its major awards. It’s a great idea! As Doctor Sweatpants nods along, I think a Montblanc Great Characters ‘The Beatles’ Special Edition rollerball sure is handsome but maybe a little too personal for him to bring to work. I think about how it must have been a gift, something special from Missus Doctor Sweatpants or maybe from Mommy or Daddy Doctor Sweatpants, and it makes me sad to think that he could maybe somehow lose it or its cap. Oh, my goodness, the cap. Not postable—all that unscrewing and screwing all day long! I resolve to purchase Doctor Sweatpants a retractable ballpoint from the Montblanc PIX line because that would be capless and easier and Bauhaus. I’m talking pretty fast at this point, so Doctor Sweatpants interrupts. He wants to know if I’ve noticed any unusual money behavior lately. Impulse buys. Reckless spending. I fidget with the button sewn onto the compressed wool scarf I just imported from Japan as I give the new question a think. The matte metal disc is a signature of designer Kiro Hirata, a playful creative throughline and trademark. So fun! What whimsy! Who needs a button on a scarf? No, nothing like that, doc, I tell him. Honestly, money’s just the last thing on my mind.