Ow.

Today, I had an annual checkup with my dermatologist. This is something I decided to do on a whim, after considering all of the facts.

Fact one: I am pale and have lots of freckles. Fact two: My skin burns in the sun like rice paper soaked in gasoline. Fact three: I occasionally crave the taste of human blood. Unfortunately, my insurance doesn't cover spirit healers, so for now I can only follow up on two of my problems.

 

I was also hoping to score some Retin-A cream (it is so much cheaper to buy it with insurance), but my mental planning was blown away by a quick succession of unpleasant surprises.

Before I continue, my dermatologist is great - she is very friendly and there is usually very little wait time in her office. However, like all doctors, she is completely oblivious to the fact that MOST people feel extremely uncomfortable discussing their life aspirations whilst naked and being examined with a magnifying ocular.

Doctor Derm (we'll call her that) is a very fast talking person and that tends to throw me off, as I feel obligated to pay attention during her monologues. Our conversation started with a few innocuous questions about my current school situation. I mentioned my plans to go to Georgia Tech to pursue an engineering degree, while she carefully examined my calves.

A series of rapid-fire questions about my working goals distracted me from the pen she was using to mark up my legs. Each question about my school was punctuated by a cold hand moving my body around for better viewing. Standing on one leg while she looked between my toes, I told her about my previous degree. This process continued on for a while, my brain reeling from the excessive amount of dialogue (I spend most of my time sitting around quietly, hoping people won't notice me), until I was sitting on the table and Doctor Derm was scrutinizing my back.

"Well, good for you for having travelled so much. Sally, hand me the scalpel. Do you think you'll stay in Atlanta?"

"Yeah, I'll probably... wait, what?!"

My alarm was clearly apparent, but was not enough to stop the process already under way. "Oh, we're just going to collect some biopsies to be safe", she explained AS SHE SHEARED AWAY MY HELPLESS FRECKLES WITH HER SWITCHBLADE. Okay, that's an over-exaggeration, it was just a big razor. But, shouldn't you have to sign some kind of form to agree to that?

At that point, I was shell-shocked and unable to resist as she removed three more offending freckles in quick succession.

Naturally, I wandered out of the office in such a daze that I completely forgot to ask for my Retin-A. Oh well, I suppose I will shell out the extra $30 a month to avoid future freckle massacres. Also, I hope I don't have skin cancer.