Paper Gowns

I don’t think anybody goes to the dermatologist happy.
I mean, you have to strip down to your underwear and shiver in the cold, dead hospital air as a nurse takes pictures of you in said questionably disrobed state, marking the dots upon your back with her eyes, great intent for your dermal demise gleaming within them.
I arrived this morning to find that the office had moved from its previous location, so my deep and intense knowledge of the office from that one time I came with my parents many years prior was washed away and irrelevant.
Perfect.

My mother was called back first, leaving me to discuss things with the receptionists, who had previously been discussing cysts that had not been properly drained on patients who I assume are now moderately famous in the social sphere surrounding this delightful department.

As I was sitting, happily tapping away at my iPod like some stereotypical teen in a commercial advertising safe texting, i.e. not driving, a receptionist leaned over the formica countertop, and asked if I was on any medication. “Uhhh…” I managed to reply. Better than my usual stare.
"Well, do you have allergies?" (She was very helpful on my journey to self discovery.)
I replied telling her that I believe I am on Zyrtec, but I don’t know. It’s there, and I take it.
A+ answer.

"Do you smoke or chew tobacco?"
"I don’t think so." (Once again, fabulous reply.)
"Do you drink at all?"
"No ma’am, not that I’m aware."

I clearly know a lot about myself as evidenced by these answers.
Moments later I was to find myself in a room, instructed to take off my clothes and put on a gown with a thing that is supposed to be tied in the back. I didn’t realize that this feature was even there. It’s times like this that I am amazed by people’s ingenuity, you know? I mean, what a time to be alive, when the gowns have little things you can tie to show only select parts of
yourself.

The waiting continued for a good while, and it was at this time that I began to wonder what would be the end result of these reference pictures, should they take them.
Would they get sold to a creepy trucker for $50 a pop? Is that what my body is worth?

Obviously I don’t do well in small rooms alone. Unless it is my own, and I have a computer. Then I can express my greatest fears to my friends through the internet. It’s more comforting to complain to people who can’t physically walk away from you. They can just say they have to go eat or something and you would then have no reason to not believe them.

Then, it happened.
They came.
The reference pictures were taken, and I smiled and was polite.
All in all it was quite uneventful.


If anything, I regret not having a selfie with the dermatologist greatly. He looks strangely like Rainn Wilson. With white hair. He also sounds like Rainn Wilson. And acts. Just. Like. Him.  
Perhaps he labels his yoghurt?

But alas, as quickly as it happened, it was over, and I was once again sitting in the waiting room, my mother finishing paperwork as I pored curiously over the pamphlets displayed for me to admire, and I guess learn from.

“Oral retinoid therapy.” (I’ll have to google this, because I’m curious now.)

“Young people and psoriasis.” (Should I ever feel flaky, I’ll read this further. Or maybe I won’t… or will I?)

“Hair loss and restoration.” (If I should lose my magnificent mane I will not be needing a slip of informational paper to console me. I will take much more drastic measures.)

And then there was one simply called “Warts.”   (I can’t completely say this wouldn’t be worth looking at.)

Let my tale of the dermatologist comfort the souls of all of you. May your skin be clear, and your moles be ever so consistent as I have been told mine are.

Have a good rest of your day.

-Ranger.