I HATE pink. Have always hated it and its association with femaleness, femininity, muliebrity, womanhood, womanishness, womanliness – well, I’m sure you got the picture.
Yesterday I had to go to the dentist, as I had lost a filling over the holiday period. As my previous dentist has the bedside manners of Doctor Frankenstein, I decided to give this guy a try at the enamel, crowns, roots and cavities of this stubborn, old(er) mule.
The receptionist gave me a glance when I announced that I was a new patient and scratched in a drawer (luckily not hers) before withdrawing a form. A pink form. I could read the “FEMALE PATIENT” in the heading upside-down. Instantly my disphoria flared up. Pink. Female. Uh-uh. Not me. Not ever. Was the boy’s haircut in vain? Seems like it. Must be these darn childbearing hips. Ugh! UGH!!!
“Just complete this and doctor will be with you soon.”
I took a deep breath. A very deep breath. Decision time. Do I tell her to stuff the form and leave, or do I wrestle down the dysphoria? I do need a filling and I will not go back to the dentist I had and it will take weeks to get an appointment with another dentist.
Why the need to separate patients by gender?! Last time I checked, my teeth were genderless.
I silently took the form and sat down on the dysphoria, so that it was under control. Barely.
Question 1, after the whole pedigree information: Are you pregnant? YES/NO. If YES, how far along?
Dysphoria cringed and growled. %$*&@! I closed my eyes. Shall I stay or leave?
I stayed, completed the form and met my new dentist. A very nice guy whole smells of cigarette smoke (not nice). His mannerisms and speech are those of a gay guy. I would be happy if he is, but dare not assume.
I HATE pink. It makes me see red. Makes me grow fangs.