I am annoyed, volume II

Dear Hospital Administrator,

Congratulations! You are not infertile.

Relax,  I didn't hack into your medical records. I didn't need to. In fact, I don't even know your name or your gender. All that was required for me to make this diagnosis is a quick drive around your medical center's parking lot and a short ride in your elevator.

Let me explain. Yesterday, I was running five minutes late for an infertility appointment at your hospital's medical center, and I was having trouble finding a parking spot. As you know, your parking lot is massive. So massive, in fact, that you employ a shuttle service to transport patients to and from their vehicles.

I circled the parking lot three times, but it was completely full. It was 98 degrees and the shuttle wasn't running. Not good. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted eight open parking spaces right next to the door!  Eight! I didn't see any handicapped symbols, so I scooted over toward Mecca.

I pulled in, put the car in park, and was about to get out when I noticed the sign: Reserved for Expectant Mothers Only.

Awesome. Not only am I unable to have a baby, I am also destined for a life of shitty parking spots.

Fifteen minutes later, out of breath and covered in sweat, I was finally in the elevator.  I scurried  in just as the doors were about to close and asked a very dry (great parking!) and very pregnant woman to press the the button for the fourth floor. "Oh! That's where I'm going, too!" she said. Of course she was.  Of course.

See, I know you're fertile, because only a fertile person would plan a perinatal/multiples ultrasound center next to a fertility clinic. It's like putting a chemotherapy center next to a hair salon. Way to go.

Love,

Dorothy