As my life span rounds month 360, it’s apparent that my future fantasies with my fictional son’s friends aren’t going to be in the cards after all. I think I had some good years, where my face didn’t feel like a pleather wallet from 5-7-9 and my ass didn’t require storm damage insurance. Saying goodbye to that 2 digit that I’ve grown so fond of is proving to be much more difficult than I had anticipated. In an effort to fight my way through thirty without having to double down on my usual dosage, I decided it was time to pay a visit to the dermatologist who can coincidentally service my botox needs.
It was my first visit to this new doctor and I was nervous and excited. I wrote down a plethora of ailments I’m currently battling including incredibly large hair follicles – surprise surprise. It was the end of the day and I was looking forward to shooting the shit with my new doctor friend. While I may have the inability to sustain most relationships, I do find that I try the hardest to maintain a strong and healthy connection to the many healthcare providers in my life. After muddling my way through the pre-consent forms that challenged cheese cake factories menu size, I was led into a room to wait anxiously for my new friend. Minutes later, the unsinkable Molly Brown walks in – kinda like a cross between Kathy Bates and John Goodman. The first sign that this was not going to well was the consistency between her skin and mine. I was anticipating a leisurely chat between homies, but what I received was an irritable exchange between me and a lesbian with a hankering to get home to her box. This wasn’t going good.
She abruptly took out a gown and told me to change down to my full backs. I was confused. Change? What is this? Late night USA? As if my self-esteem couldn’t get any lower, I’m now being subjected to a late day peep show? If I had known there was going to be a strip down, I would have certainly done the following:
- Went to a hot guy doctor
- Trimmed up Yosimite Park’s micro site
- Booked any early appointment while the eight layers of concealer, blush, foundation, BB Cream, powder and illuminator was in a non-melted state
- And went to a hot guy doctor
So there I am – standing in front of Rosie O’Donnell’s angry cousin holding my palms over my un-errect nipples – did I mention STANDING? Like, standing in a florescent lit room. I barely take showers naked much less trot around in well lit spaces with thr ball park wave taking place in my mid-section.
Most people’s reaction to seeing me naked:
So there we are – me and Bates. She seemed to get a thrill out of watching me cup my 359 month old nipples. She takes out a pair of laboratory like glasses that I’m convinced were fake – like as if she just got off the set of “Outbreak” and was diagnosing a revolutionary atom that could cure the chicken pox (doubt it dawg) – ya, well, my age spots and frecks aren’t exactly hard to see by the naked eye. Next thing I know she says – “put your hands down by your side so I can see your chest.” (Reference A through D one more time)
I was just waiting for her to call out the two large moles on the flattest part of my body so I could have hard evidence that she was faking her exam. I was preparing my rebuttal to be something like, “UM, those saucers are my nipples, dick tits, I’m outta here.” I would then storm out of the florescent cell, grabbing only my handbag and a gown that would be open in the front, not the back. I would then throw my hands up in the air as I approached the exit/ entrance, turn around, flip off all the patrons in the waiting room and say – fuck you mother fuckers! It didn’t exactly turn out in my favor.
Just as I breathed a sigh of relief thinking this ridiculous experience had come to a close, she makes me turn around and lift my feet so now she’s got a full view of the ass rings that have developed in my flesh color panties. This take place for what seemed like an episode of Mad Men – but not a really good one, like one of the early years when they were still conceptualizing character developments. Finally the ordeal was over and I was allowed to put back on my Forever41 outfit.
So after all that I was confident that Private Lezby’s assessment and ultimate script approval would turn out in my favor. Unfortunately for me, I left with some over the counter hydrocortisone cream. Well, that along with a few shots of Bo-Magic injected into my face. Dr. Fingers got the last laugh on that one advising me to wear more sunscreen and moisturize often.