WTG?!

When I was young, I spent a fair amount of time baking in the sun, while covered in oil.

Think rotisserie chicken in a bikini.

“You’re going to regret it someday,” my mom warned me.

But as a teenager with big goals (to be the tannest in all the landest), I didn’t listen.

But now, many moons later (or should I say suns), I have come to regret those 42,000 hours lying in the sun.

Especially when it’s time to go for my annual dermatology exam.

The appointment usually starts off with the dermatologist commenting, “Well, somebody certainly likes the sun.” She then spends the next hour zapping all my “suspicious sun spots” (say that 5x fast) with her high-powered freezer gun.

And, let’s not forget those “extra suspicious spots” which require a biopsy. That’s when the doctor takes out her big needle so she can shoot me with lidocaine. 

I close my eyes, gritting my teeth, “Is this going to hurt?” I ask.

“Very much,” she says, stabbing me in the arm.

Little did I know that when I arrived for my exam last week, my new dermatologist, Dr. G, was about to inflict a whole new level of pain on me.

The visit started out fairly routine, with her doing an initial scan of my arms and legs. “We’re going to freeze off a few areas,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

“You’ll need to undress, but keep your bra and underwear on.”

I nodded and waited for her to hand me something.

She didn’t.

When she was heading for the door, I stammered,  “Uh, uh, uh….” 

She turned to face me. “Yes?”

“Where’s my gown?” I finally asked.

“Oh, there are none,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“No gowns?!” I exclaimed.

“No gowns,” she repeated as if this was fine and normal, and I should just go with it.

(Just to clarify, I wasn’t expecting a formal gown. Cotton, paper, whatever! Just give me some coverage!)

“I’ll give you a couple of minutes,” she said, and left.

A couple of minutes? I can’t make my own gown in a couple of minutes!

In a panic, I scoured the room. On the counter was a box of tissues and half a jar of cotton balls, that, if fashioned together, would make for an albeit tiny, yet comfy gown. 

However, I had forgotten my glue gun, and let’s be honest, I’m just not that crafty.

I just sat there, stunned, my shock quickly escalating to outrage.

I felt like the little old lady on the Wendy’s commercial, who took one look at her sad skimpy burger, and bellowed that memorable line, “WHERE’S THE BEEF?”

Now, I was the one with the beef.

“WHERE’S THE GOWN?!”

However, I had no choice but to do what she asked.

Once I was in my bra and underwear, I tried to recline the chair so I could lie back in a more flattering pose, but the chair didn’t budge.

I knew I had limited time so I quickly attempted several positions, such as:

“Sitting Soldier” – Legs uncrossed, exemplary posture

“Come Hither” – Legs crossed, slight tilt, hand on hip

“Stretchy Cat” – Arms overhead, elongated torso

I was right in the middle of “Crumbly Muffin,” when…

Knock, knock, knock

“Are you ready?” Dr. G called from the other side of the door.

To be humiliated? Yes, Ma’am.

“This is Delilah,” Dr. G said, pointing to the young nurse, who had accompanied her.

Oh, goodie, more people.

“She’s going to take some pictures,” Dr. G added.

Oh, goodie, a photo shoot.

And so it began. Dr. G lifted limbs, prodded, pulled, and zapped away, while Delilah, held up her iPad and clicked away, in what can only be described as the world’s saddest photo shoot.

The overly bright fluorescent lights only added to the misery.

Would it have killed them to add some soft backlighting?

All the while, I kept fidgeting, trying to maneuver into a less vulnerable pose, but Dr. G wasn’t having it.

“Uncross your legs.”

“Stop tilting.”

“Sit still.”

So I just sat, starring in my own episode of “Naked and Afraid.”

An eternity later, after the doctor was done freezing, slicing, and dicing me, she smiled and said, “We’re all done.”

But that wasn’t entirely true.

The office receptionist called yesterday to inform me that the doctor would like to see me for a follow-up. Before she hung up, she said, “Don’t forget to bring your insurance card.”

Oh, that’s not all I’ll be bringing.