...when I went to the worst doctor EVER.

I’m pretty good at going to the doctor.  My mom would probably choke on her own astonishment reading that statement, because when I was little I really sucked at it.  But now I’m aces.  I love filling out forms with the same information over and over and over again.  There’s just something satisfying about accomplishing things, and filling out forms in a doctor’s office gives you about three or four chances to pat yourself on the back in a ten-minute spree of achievement.

You may have noticed that the ladies behind the proverbial desk are cheering for me.  This is because I’m really good at small talk.  If there’s anyone in a doctor’s office you want on your side, it’s the people who schedule appointments.  I make friends early on.  This is the second reason I am good at going to the doctor.

Thirdly, I have fairly neat handwriting, so pretty much everyone gets my name right.

And, last but not least, I have an obsessively good memory for details.  So when my doctor asks me a ridiculously specific question, he or she gets a ridiculously specific answer.

So I went to the doctor’s office on Tuesday fully expecting to leave mentally congratulating myself for being awesome at seeing to my health.

It was not to be.

After a great start—I filled out those forms and peed in that cup like a champ, but I won’t illustrate that—things turned sour when I went to put my pee cup in the special pee cup cabinet.

IT WAS FULL.  IT WAS FULL OF OTHER PEE CUPS THAT WERE NOT MINE.

I panicked briefly.

Luckily, this last thought struck me as particularly illogical, and it snapped me out of my panic.  Like a well-adjusted and rational adult, I used a paper napkin to rearrange all the other pee cups and absolutely refused to think about Ebola while doing so.  I wedged in my pee cup and shut the cabinet.  I briefly contemplated my duty to mankind.

But since I had no sign-making materials, I decided to just tell a nurse instead.  She looked properly chagrined about her lack of attention to hygienic detail.

So after THAT ordeal, I waited in the exam room for a few years.  I stewed about getting weighed for a bit, long enough to dismiss the number entirely by convincing myself that my clunky high-heeled boots and thick winter work clothes had to weigh at LEAST 20 pounds and that I was actually a willowy waif.  Then I read about Ryan Reynolds’ abs in a magazine.

When I was beginning to worry that I hadn’t brought hair dye to cover the gray hairs I was undoubtedly growing as I aged in that exam room, the doctor came in.  I disliked her immediately.

But since I rarely say what I’m actually thinking, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and spared her the sarcasm.

I won’t tell you exactly what happened, since I really am trying not to cross the over-sharing line, but suffice it to say that at one point, the thought “no one will even know how I died”  definitely crossed my mind.

Against all odds, I survived.  So I got another opportunity to engage in stimulating medical discussion.

So I kind of made myself way more assertive and her way more obtuse than either of us actually sounded, but when someone refuses to listen to you, does not respect you, implies that you’re lying repeatedly and are behaving like a hypochondriac and also keeps you waiting for over an hour-and-a-half so she can spend a maximum of seven minutes with you, you kind of want to punch her in the face.

Actually, I had something better in mind.

But since I probably would have been arrested for that, I’m content to blog her into oblivion.  Take that, Wicked Witch of Willis-Knighton.