Son, be a dentist

Maybe you remember that little ditty from Steve Martin in Little Shop of Horrors. (You know, I can never remember if I'm supposed to put titles in italics or quotes.)  Anywho, if you don't, you can have a good laugh here.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with the dermatologist.  I figure at 34, I deserve to have some semblence of clear skin.  I will say it's considerably better than it was, but that's neither here nor there.  I am fortunate enough to have health insurance and I don't really use it for much else, so I thought that I should get my money's worth.

I arrived at the office in a timely manner and filled out the typical first-timer paperwork.  I was a little concerned because I had not had a chance to wash my face because traffic was TERRIBLE and I had to go directly to the appointment without stopping at home first.  Why not forgo the makeup for one day, you may ask?  Because it isn't polite to scare people at work, that's why.

I was whisked into an exam room where the nursey lady asked me if I was wearing makeup, as if she couldn't tell.  I told her I was and she asked me to wash and I obliged.  They had some yummy smelling face soap there in the room.  After a quick wash, I sat back on the exam table and waited.  The doctor arrived in a timely fashion and introduced herself and then gave her best shot at pronouncing my name.  I didn't think it that difficult to sound it out, but she insisted on putting an 'R' in it when there is not one. (Lovey said that I should have told her that the R is silent.)

In the manner that doctors do, she asked me why I was in her office.  Now, call me crazy, but I would think that if I were a dermatologist and someone came to my office, I would think that they felt they had some sort of skin issue.  I let it slide and answered that I had some mild acne and some big-ass pores and I'd like to see them go away.

At this point, I think it's important to say that this dermatologist came highly recommended by two patients, one of whom is of the darker complextion, like me, so I was just gonna run with it.

Ms. Derma donned her glasses and practically sat on my lap to give me the close-up exam.  She pointed out my zits and a mole I had and said that she could get rid of all of them.  Hooray!  She was just going to do some treatment and an injection and put me on a regimen and boom!, beautiful skin.

EEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Right, put on the brakes.  Did you say injection??!  Um, I don't like vampires.  But, I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that.

She gets some thing out of a sealed plastic package and attaches it to a machine of doom behind me.  Dr. Derma then tells me that I may feel a little 'discomfort'.  But no worse than getting a facial.  Have I ever had a facial?  Yes, and I swore never to do it again.  Oh, yes, yes, I agree.  All that discomfort and no results, she says.  And then she starts.

It's a frickin laser!  And she's zapping my face in random areas and guess what?  It's more than a little discomfort.  It isn't excrutiating pain, but it does hurt a little.  Dr. Derma is zapping away and hits a spot that, for whatever reason, is more sensitive than the rest of my face.  A small ouch escaped me.  Dr. Death tells me that it's not that bad and "Beauty is pain."  Thanks for making me feel better.

In a feat of sheer willpower, I didn't bolt from the table and then the office screaming like a banshee when she said, okay, time for the injections.  I just closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the needle coming.  It honestly hurt less than the lasers and considerably less than you would think it would to have needles STUCK IN YOUR FACE.

I thought she was maybe using a little too much goo as, after one injection, I could feel it running down my face.  Dr. Evil has some cotton patchy things and she tells me to hold it to the last place she shot me.  She moves to the other side, needle-happy, and nursey lady comes back in and says "ooh" and tells me to move my patchies over to the other side.  In the process of moving them, I opened my eyes, and yes, almost passed out after squeaking.  Why?  Because it wasn't needle goo running down my face, it was blood.  MY BLOOD!

Dr. Bedside-Manner said, "What, it's only a little blood."  HAHAHAHAHA!  I curbed my insane laughter and urge to floor this woman where she stood.  Besides, I was all done except for the hard sell.  She tried to get me to do a peel and I said that I had had enough for one day thankyouverymuch.  Okay, then get your regimen and get out of here you pansy.  Oh, and take these prescriptions too.  Before you go, please stop by the front desk and have your picture taken for later humiliation posterity and give me all of your money.

Thanks, see you in six weeks!

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