What’s happening, Blogsville?! Hope this verbage finds you happy and healthy! I also hope you’re ready for a mildly gross, funny story, because that’s what I’ve got comin’ at ya in this fresh edition of Concisely Claire.
Today, I went to the dermatologist to have my first mole removal. It was a fairly decent-sized mole on my right hip, and one that I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I used to love this mole — it was a nice, light brown, in a cute spot, and was perfectly round and hairless. Then one day in my early teens it became incredibly itchy, and since it hurt to scratch it, I dug a massive “X” right through its center with my fingernails. It never bounced back to its perky perfection, but it also never itched again, so all in all a win in my book. But as the years went by, the places surrounding the “X” started to look lumpy and fuggin’ gross, and the once cute, Marilyn Monroe mark on my hip was now this misshapen, sad brown turd.
I ignored it for a few years; being in my mid-twenties and still not knowing how to adult completely put that kind of shit by the wayside. (“What? Skin cancer? Naah, I ain’t got time for that. I’ve got a 3:30 appointment with this 12 pack of PBR.”) Now that I’m in my late twenties and have a job with decent health insurance, I finally made an appointment to get that shit looked at and cut out. So I met the doc, he took a look and said it didn’t look like anything to be concerned about, but I went ahead and made an appointment to get rid of it anyway.
So I go in this afternoon, sign in, and take a seat in the waiting room. There were several other people there — a cute elderly couple that a snail could beat in a race, a mother and daughter filling out a job application, some older dude I thought might be staring at me but wasn’t sure and was too afraid to look, and another dude who was reading a book. Pleased I wouldn’t be the only one reading, I go to retrieve my copy of Night of the Living Trekkies from my purse when I realize I left it on my desk at home.
HORSE COOOOCK! I think to myself, and whisper/mumble something incoherent aloud.
Being in a waiting room without a book is one of my Top 10 Worst Things Ever. I sure as shit wasn’t gonna walk across the room and peruse the germ-ridden magazines in the rack that’s right next to Guy Who Might Be Staring At Me But Probably Isn’t, so after staring at the warps in the wooden floor for several minutes I finally concede to looking at my phone. Turns out that’s a good thing, because there was a work email that I needed to respond to readily.
I sift through my emails, trying desperately to not let the frequent post pings, Like clicks, and typed comments I hear coming from the lady’s phone next to me grate on my nerves. I had little success.
It’s a f***ing waiting room — silence your damn phone! Nobody wants to hear how social media savvy you are!
I eventually tune it out, get bored with my phone, and almost fall asleep in the waiting room, but am too afraid to sleep with Guy Who Might Be Staring At Me But Probably Isn’t watching me maybe. The minutes tick by. I toy with the notion of leaving. Just run away and never return. It’s only a $35 missed appointment fee… it’ll be worth this mind-numbing agony. Several people get called back. Jay, Ramona… I can feel myself deteriorating…
At last, 25 minutes past my appointment time, the mixture of vowels and consonants I’ve been dying to hear resound from the assistant’s lips. So long, suckeeeers! Now I get to wait in solitude for another 25 minutes! Cha-ching!
I get taken into “Procedure Room 3,” a room with a fancier chair than the other rooms, a large mobile overhead light, an iHome, a very loud ticking clock, and a picture of my doctor’s face covered in sunscreen giving the thumbs up that says, “Wear Sunscreen!” The assistant tells me to get comfortable and turns the iPod on. An extended, live version of “Rocket Man” by Elton John begins to play (not that you’d know it right away).
All riiiiight, I think. I very much enjoy Elton John, but he isn’t someone that’s in my regular earworm rotation, so this was a refreshing mix-up. I lie down on the now fully reclined chair, hands folded on my stomach like a corpse, and find myself falling asleep for a few moments. An hour after I walked through the clinic’s threshold, my doctor appears, nurse in tow. He explains the procedure to me as he had at our first meeting, I agree and sign the consent waiver, and we bullshit about Elton John while he washes his hands and puts on his gloves and all that other preliminary crap. I lift my shirt and lie sideways, hip up. He then sticks me with my first shot of Lidocaine. I instinctively jump.
“Yup, these are gonna hurt a bit,” he says.
“That’s all right,” I reply. “As you can see, I’m quite familiar with needles.”
“Are you, now?” he replies, his voice slightly snide.
“W-well, uh… yeah, ’cause of my… tattoos… you know… the big fairy there…?” The words tumble out of my mouth like a bad slip on the stairs, ass hitting each step. Down, down I go, until I eventually close my mouth and let him work, letting Elton John carry my nerves and humiliation away.
Just so we’re clear: I’m not a heroin addict.
After overcoming this colossal colloquial blunder, I manage to make it through the remainder of the surgery without adding any further insult to injury. He finishes, the nurse bandages me, and we shake hands, all smiles. I’m still not sure if he said that to be a smartass, or if he genuinely didn’t notice the bright, 18-inch fairy on my back that was facing him. I’m leaning towards asshole — I mean smartass.
So now I’m home, all bandaged up, and I’ll be back in two weeks to get the sutures removed. And I didn’t have to pay a dime! Huzzah for health insurance! Maybe next visit I can get away with only subtly implying I have a cough medicine addiction. #Goals!
Have you ever had an awkward time at the doctor’s office? Leave a Reply with your story below! I’d love to hear from you.