The image above was taken yesterday in the waiting area of my Dr.'s office.
(Said image proves - once again - that I am no Dory when it comes to PhotoShop!)
No, your eyes aren't deceiving you and neither am I. That magazine is dated 1986.
NINETEEN. EIGHTY. SIX.
Obviously the point of going to the doctor is be healed, not to catch up on all the latest diets, decorating tips and Hollywood gossip. How-evah, finding that outdated magazine caused me to seriously question which decade my Doc is living in. If she hasn't caught up on sex tips and recipes for the last 26 years, when was the last time she picked up a medical journal?!
So I questioned the receptionist, "Mary, I know there are lots of jokes about how bad the magazines are in waiting rooms, but... seriously...1986?"
Turns out there is a perfectly logical - if you suspend disbelief for a moment - explanation for the antiquarian literature in the reception area: Most of my doctor's patients are antiques.
Mary laughed and laughed and then LAUGHED and explained that the office subscribes to several relevant, modern mags, thankyouverymuch, but that the little old lady patients sneak in expired reading material and then quietly swap it for new the magazines. Like it isn't stealing of you leave something in it's place.
Following this logic I should be able to skip over to the Volvo dealer and take off in a new C30 without repercussion as long as I leave my poor, sad 12-year-old Altima in its place.
How far do you think I'd get? Maybe if I donned a powdered wig and walked with a cane they'd let me go.
"Poor dear. She got into the wrong car when she left. Do you think we should stop her?"
"No, no. No point in embarrassing her. Let her go. We'll write off the loss. Bless her."
Suddenly I can't wait to get old and feeble! Or is that free-ble?