Imagine my younger sister, Sheri, and me on a Friday night, trying to stay up until our ticket alarm clock clicked to the magical moment of 11:11 pm. That seemed to us to be the epitome of late.
We were getting silly, giggling about cute Tony in my Science class and mean Kelly on her soccer team. We began talking, as girls often do, about some of the weird, crazy things we’d learned in 5th grade sex ed.
Randomly, we began to name doctors. Sheri grabbed a shoe and talked into it like a microphone. “Dr. Varry, Dr. O. Varry. Please come to the operating room right away!”
We squealed with delight at this new game. I grabbed the shoe.
“Dr. Taurus, Dr U. Taurus. Come to the ER, stat!”
Sheri’s turn: “Dr. Tube. Dr Phillip Ian Tube. You are being paged by OB-GYN.”
Me (in a British accent): “Paging Dr Vic. Sir Vic’s wife is on Line 2.”
Sheri: “Dr Doverenkopf, Dr Ben Doverenkopf — you are needed immediately in Proctology.”
The game may have gone on awhile longer, but the names are lost to me now. I remember, though, that we both wet our pants that night and our tummy muscles hurt the next day.
It remains one of the fondest memories I have of childhood.