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.