I have recently been in the unenviable position of seeking employment. Honestly, in this economy it’s a bit of a futile trek uphill.  It doesn’t help that in my job life I have jumped all over the map. However, at this phase in my life I can pretty much rule out a few occupations:

A Vampire – I mean, Bella makes it look pretty cool but seriously, how great could it be having to drink animal blood for an eternity?

A Doctor – apparently you need some kind of special license for that job or something.

And after my experience last week, A Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama is now permanently off the list (and I am just sick over the lost tips wages).

How could such an admirable career goal be dashed with one experience?  Well, let me explain.

Last week, I had an appointment with the dermatologist to have a little, itty bitty, teeny tiny cyst removed – a cyst that was trying hard to mind its own business but made the doctor nervous nonetheless.  Apparently, the whole idea of someone coming near me with a knife freaks me out (Thank you Nightmare on Elm Street) because the closer to the appointment it got the more nervous I became – to the point where I could not sleep the night before and was a bundle of jittery goop by the time I arrived at the office on “the day.”  However, the Doctor assured me once the numbing agents were in place, I wouldn’t feel a thing and it would be no big deal. Low and behold, he was right – that numbing stuff is the bomb!  So I settled down and prepared for an easy experience feeling proud of my Spartan Woman level of bravery.

But then I began to hear something– snip, snip, snip, snip.

Doc:  “I know you can hear the ‘snipping’ but don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

Um, too late.

It was pretty much a quick toboggan ride downhill from there.

Me: “Doc, you should know, I feel kinda sick at the moment.”

That statement was instantly followed by cold sweats, light headedness, the urge to hurl, and the involuntary desire to pass out – which I would have done had I not already been lying down with my feet now so very attractively hiked up in the air and the AC cranked down to Arctic proportions. Right then and there I knew I had pretty much blown my whole “I am woman hear me roar” status so I tried to concentrate on preserving what dignity I had left. And then finally, after an eternity, the ordeal was over.  Ok, it only took, like, 10 minutes, but it felt as if I had watched Dr. Zhivago…twice.

Later, as I lay on the recovery table of shame, the Doctor came in the room to check on me.

Doc:  “How do you feel?”

Me:  “Fine” (I lied, no sense in enhancing  my newly acquired wimp status).

Doc:  “Hey, look at the bright side…”

What, there is a bright side?  I’m not as big a wimp as it seems?  I won’t be trying to live down my behavior for the rest of our doctor/patient relationship?  I really am the Spartan Woman I momentarily believed myself to be??

Doc:  “…At least you didn’t puke on my shoes.”

Yeah, ok, I guess I will take what I can get.

But, clearly, the boob job required for me to ever acquire the rack needed for Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama employment is unequivocally off the table.

There goes that “special skill.”

Today I go back to the Doctor get my stitches out.  I hope Doc chooses his shoes accordingly.