I was heading to the chiropractor around noon today - missed my appointment Monday because I lost track of time while I was interviewing a candidate for a possible future job. Luckily she was able to reschedule me - I don't know what I would do without that interferential current, traction, and adjustment. I went a few months without it and got all crooked. I've been going about every two weeks for the last couple of months, and even though I don't feel like I need it anymore, it's kind of like exercise - addictive.
I notified the secretaries I would be out of my office for about an hour and stopped by my partner Dianne's office to let her know I was leaving - she agreed earlier to cover me for clinical calls. She is tall and lanky and like every other pathologist I work with, looks about 15 years younger than her chronological age. I'm telling you, this is the life. She has short brown hair and chunky black stylish glasses that complement her uber-intelligence. Her office has a window (jealous!) that oversees the entire clinical lab, so she has her finger on the pulse of the activity - she knows when a new marrow is coming from radiology by the sounds she can hear on the other side of the glass.
"Dianne, I'm headed out."
"Can you smell that?"
"That banana, in my trash can. It's overly ripe, and it stinks."
"Well, I can't smell it, but I know what you mean. I can't stand the smell of overly ripe bananas - they make me nauseated. If it was by my desk, I would have to take it to the bathroom trash - I couldn't work."
"That's what I think I am going to have to do."
Our conversation got me thinking about bananas. I keep bananas around the house constantly - I eat peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches at least once or twice a week. Jack also likes them. I asked Dianne, "What is up with bananas these days, anyway? They get overly ripe so fast! I buy them green as I can and a couple of days later they are attracting fruit flies. I can't stand it. I used to make banana bread all the time, but now I usually just throw out my bad bananas."
Dianne said, "I know what you mean. I have a banana tree, but they still go bad all the time."
Wow, I thought. Dianne, the self-proclaimed non-cook like myself, had a banana tree? I imagined her traipsing out to her back yard plucking them off in bunches to slice with her morning cereal and yogurt. And it sounded like her banana tree was so prolific, that no matter how many she picked they still went bad. I imagined a banana tree weighed down with too much fruit, an exasperated Dianne perspiring in a heap at its base with a basket full of bananas, no end to her work in sight. Just how many feathers, I wondered, could fit in her cap? Wasn't it enough that she could make a difficult lymph node or bone marrow report sound like poetry, such that I frequently sought her counsel and hung on her every word? Really, a banana tree? I said, "Well, that's really impressive! A banana tree! I just go to the store to get my bananas."
She looked at me querulously - in retrospect, I think she was trying to determine if I was serious. "Um, Giz, the banana tree is in my kitchen? It is something I hang my bananas on to keep them fresh longer?" She made each explanation a question, still doubting my belief in her banana tree. Finally a light bulb went off in my head, and I started laughing uncontrollably. Luckily she joined in. When we both gathered ourselves, she said, "Boy, Giz, I'll bet I could convince you of anything, couldn't I?"
"I was wondering how you managed to have a banana tree, what with this Arkansas climate and all. Yes, I have been known to be pretty gullible. I like to think of it as part of my charm, rather than stupidity, but I guess it could go either way."
She grinned. "You know, I've got this diamond mine in my back yard and I really need some investors. . . "
"Ha! I've got to get to the chiropractor."
"Thanks for the laugh, Giz - I really needed that."
I have a feeling this is not the last I will hear about the banana tree.