Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Skin Deep
So I have a wonderful new dermatologist who is also a plastic surgeon. This means that each time I go in to whine about my perpetual puberty, I also have the option of getting my boobs done. Plus I get to sit in the waiting room listening to the awful new agey dulcimer music (which would also be appropriate for a terrible Chinese restaurant) and guess who's there for what. Nine times out of ten I guess penis enlargement, but that's probably just a reflex.
Another fun thing about my new dermatologist is that she's one of those big, brassy women who makes a great big show of her confidence but obviously goes home and cries silent silver tears into her pillow each night. She's cracking all kinds of jokes and talking uncomfortably about her personal life on the outside, but I know inside she's wondering if there's a new Commander in Chief on tonight and if there's any of that Chunky Monkey left in her freezer. I just want to hug her, but not until after she's already given me my prescriptions.
Of course, every time I leave my office even for an hour I come back to find five or six voicemail messages requesting my urgent response to an emergency motion or gunshot wound or industrial accident, but I think looking good is worth a little suffering, don't you? So long as that suffering belongs to other people.
So I have a wonderful new dermatologist who is also a plastic surgeon. This means that each time I go in to whine about my perpetual puberty, I also have the option of getting my boobs done. Plus I get to sit in the waiting room listening to the awful new agey dulcimer music (which would also be appropriate for a terrible Chinese restaurant) and guess who's there for what. Nine times out of ten I guess penis enlargement, but that's probably just a reflex.
Another fun thing about my new dermatologist is that she's one of those big, brassy women who makes a great big show of her confidence but obviously goes home and cries silent silver tears into her pillow each night. She's cracking all kinds of jokes and talking uncomfortably about her personal life on the outside, but I know inside she's wondering if there's a new Commander in Chief on tonight and if there's any of that Chunky Monkey left in her freezer. I just want to hug her, but not until after she's already given me my prescriptions.
Of course, every time I leave my office even for an hour I come back to find five or six voicemail messages requesting my urgent response to an emergency motion or gunshot wound or industrial accident, but I think looking good is worth a little suffering, don't you? So long as that suffering belongs to other people.
