Seated in the doctor’s lobby, I fill out the medical forms inquiring every aspect of my health history. That done, I flip through a magazine called Phoenix Home and Garden. I get lost in the pictures of gorgeous gardens with waterfalls and gurgling fountains and pergolas smothered in lush green vines. Finally, I’m called.
The doctor, a nice-looking young man who could easily moonlight as a fashion model for Esquire, glances over my forms.
“You have insomnia?”
“I had insomnia,” I say, “I’m not dealing with it now.” (Insomnia had nothing to do with the reason I was seeing the doctor. But he wanted to focus on it.)