Misadventures in Dermatology

I was having trouble falling asleep last night, and as I was lying there trying to make it happen, the most HILARIOUS blog post came to mind. I remember thinking, "HOW have I not blogged about this yet?" It was the type of thing where the whole post just started putting itself together in my head - complete with gifs - and I was like, "Yes. Here we go. This is what I'm going to write about tomorrow."

And then I fell asleep and completely forgot what it was. I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to blog about. So instead I'm going to blog about the most embarrassing doctors appointment I've ever experienced.

(How many times can I say "blog" in one blog post?)

The year was 2015. I was 24 years old. Struttin' around in some sandals. I looked down at my feet and noticed a small brown spot on my toenail.

Naturally, I went into a tailspin. I googled "nail cancer," I drove over to my parents' house and made my mom look at it (and touch it)...

That's pretty much it. If I can't get the answer from Google or one of my parents, I typically throw in the towel and move on to the next best thing. In this case, the doctor.

Yes, hi. I need an appointment. It's kind of an emergency. There's a brown spot on my toe. 

The dermatologist got me in right away. I let my boss know that I would be leaving early for a very important appointment. I bid her adieu, wondering if this was the end. If I would ever return to this office. I arrived at the dermatologist looking forlorn as ever.

I'm not the type to half-ass anything. I'm either EXTREMELY chill and laidback, like, "Ok, sure. I need to come up with $3,000 by tomorrow? No sweat. I can figure that out." OR I'm dramatic as hell, like, "BAILEY JUST ATE A CARROT. CAN DOGS EAT CARROTS? IS HE GOING TO BE OK? OH GOD, I AM JUST THE WORST MOTHER. TAKE THIS DOG FROM ME AND LOCK ME UP."

This particular incident had me feeling the latter, with a tinge of weepy nostalgia.

I remember when life was simple and I didn't have this brown spot on my toe.

The dermatologist called me in. She sat me down. She asked me to give her all the details. When did you first notice the spot? How long has it been? Does it hurt? Do you wear sunscreen? Have you ever had a spot like this before?

We got through all the questions, and then she began the examination.

"Did you wear leather shoes recently?"

Ma'am, I appreciate that you think I have the appearance of someone who can afford leather shoes (I could barely afford the appointment), but what does this have to do with anything?

"Ah, there we go. When was the last time you painted your nails?"

Oh, god.

"Was it a brownish color?"

Oh, please. Oh, god. I want to crawl in a hole and die.

I replied, "No."

She looked back at me, holding a cotton ball that I assume had nail polish remover or acetone on it. I noticed the brown spot was gone.

"Well, actually, it was more of a copper color," I said.

She was so kind not to laugh at me, but she was probably more irritated with me than anything. I joked and said, "I bet this happens a lot, huh?" And she said, "No."

So that's that. That's the story of how I went to the dermatologist to get a spot of nail polish removed from my toenail for $200.