The Chaperone

I don't know what the law actually says, but today it forced me to watch Shawn touch some boobs. Boobs that weren't mine. See, I make the guy go to work on Saturdays. Well, every other Saturday. Every other Saturday morning, to be specific (over the summer it's only once a month, but he still moans and groans about it). I figure it's good for business. The patients love it, some just can't make it during the week, plus, he gets Wednesday afternoons off to make up for the whole horrible inconvenience.  But on Saturdays, it's just the two of us, a regular little mom and pop shop, since I can't entice any of our employees to roll into work on a weekend, at least until they run out of vacation time and that usually doesn't happen until later in the year. So unless there's a nurse around, no new patients or vaccines or Paps get scheduled. But every now and then, something comes up and Shawn peeks around the corner and tells me he needs some help, he needs a chaperone. A couple of months ago, a twenty-something had some questionable thing on her back, her low back, low, low, low back, way below her tramp stamp and I got pulled into that one, too. Today the chaperone-worthy part was on the other side and higher up. Appointment couldn't wait. Pre-op visit for surgery next week, nurse is off at Disneyland 'til Wednesday and surgeon needs faxed clearance letter Tuesday am, or else. So Shawn's face appeared at my door, interrupting my very, very important internet surfing. "Lisa, I need to do a breast exam. I need a chaperone." So we went in. I stood there glued to the wall, stared at my toes (overdue for a pedicure), listened to their chit chat and ran out the door when it was over.


Maybe we should just see guys on Saturdays.