Excerpt from “Bearded Lady no more”, a passage from Allison Landa’s memoir, published Monday, October 8, 2010 in Salon.com:
I’m making my way down the path that leads to the clinic’s front door. I’m walking through a rock garden, past beds of flowers, little miniature waterfalls whose tinkling makes me want to pee. I feel like I’m walking down a hallway that keeps getting longer and longer. I’ve seen horror films like this: Just when you think you’ve reached the end, you find the end is out of reach.
Right before I decide it’s a sign to go home, I see it: the front door. Damn. Two fewer steps in the fog and I could’ve given up, left, called from the office, sorry, couldn’t find it, will call back to reschedule.
Or I could’ve just never rescheduled. I could’ve avoided the voice on the phone, that sweet down-to-earth tone that belongs to –
“Hi,” the woman says. “I’m Jessica.”
She’s not what I’d expected: a pudgy Latina with braces, heavy eyebrows, a little roll of fat bulging beneath her shirt, which says Oil of Olay, spelled out in little faux rhinestones. The front lobby is comfortable. That sucks. I’d wanted it to feel sterile to the point of hostility.
Read entire article here.