I hate that weird paper runner you have to sit on at the doctor’s office. It’s entirely too crinkly and even the slightest movement, like blinking your eyes, can ricochet its noise around the room and draw all sorts of attention from the nurses’ station outside.

But you know what I hate even more than that? I hate going to the doctor’s office for an unexplainable rash on your neck and face, but instead spend 18 of your 20 minute visit getting a lecture on how desperately you need microdermabrasion to annihilate the crop of blackheads littering your forehead.

I didn’t sit in the waiting room for over an hour to be told by a jerk with a Ph.D. that I’m too unfathomably nasty to be seen in public without the assistance of multiple laser treatments.

I took the morning off of work because a few weird bumps I had on my face had multiplied during the night, and I was concerned it was poison ivy, my old arch nemesis, trying to go for round two. I have a rash similar to what I had a few weeks ago spanning a few of my fingers and even on my mouth. Now, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure poison ivy has about zero reasons to be on my face, let alone MY LIPS. I’ve got big plans this weekend, and running around with herpes of the face is not a viable option for me. Sorry.

So I went to a clinic and perched myself in the waiting room chair for like a thousand years before they called me back to finally talk to someone. First, we stopped at the weigh-in station (because that’s always good news) and I found out I weight close to 600 pounds (which put me in a GREAT mood). Then she took my blood pressure (which was normal for once) and asked me about the biblical plague on my face. “Okay! The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment!” she said, bouncing out the room with her clipboard.

Then the doctor came in, shook my hand (which I thought odd considering he has no idea what disease I could be carrying), and asked me about my troubles. “Well, I can’t get Kelly Clarkson to talk to me,” I began, but then I stopped when I noticed the funny look on his face. “Oh, you mean my health.”

He got all up in my grill to inspect the bumps on my mouth and said, and this is a direct quote, “I’m having a really hard time trying to see what you’re talking about. With all your acne, it’s hard to tell what’s what.”

Shoot me in the freakin’ face right now – what did he just say to me?

Then he walked back to his swivel chair and launched into his professional diagnosis of my acne. “I know you didn’t come see me to talk about this, but …” (I almost admired the gall it took for him to dare say that to me … almost.) I pretty much tuned out after that, sitting on my crinkly paper throne, feeling incredibly small and insecure. I caught his recommendation that I seek out a dermatologist for no fewer than two microdermabrasion treatments to be “extra certain you can get all those clogged pores cleared out”. Then Dr. McDeliversUnwarrentedAdvice made a list of all the ingredients I need to look for in an acne system, and am I using an SPF when I lay out? He couldn’t help but notice my tan lines. Oh I am using SPF? Well, that could be clogging my pores too and contributing to the overall revulsion that is my face.

He used phrases like “to improve your skin” and “to look better”, each one carrying the conversation further and further away from my initial inquiry about the itchy rash on my face, and closer and closer to my attempted suicide.

Poison ivy AND acne? There goes my social life. Buy me a paper bag and call it a day.

Less than two minutes before he sauntered out of the examination room to go crush someone else’s spirit, the doctor said, “As for the rashy bumps on your face (which may or may not be more puss filled pimple balls, we just don’t simply know), you may have had an allergic reaction to something. Could be a bug bite, there’s really no telling. Here’s a prescription. Bye-bye!”

Then he had the audacity to shake my hand again, like we had just completed some formal business deal where we both came out winners. I should have squeezed out a blackhead THEN shook his hand – if only I was quicker on my feet.

So then I did the only thing a 24 year-old woman knows how to do – I went out to my car and cried.

Operation Kelly:
Still no tweet from the beloved, Ms. Clarkson. I’ve only attempted to talk to her once, so I’m not really surprised. I’m sure people tweet her all day and she just doesn’t have the time to answer so many insufferable “KELLY CLARKSON I LOVE YOU” messages. My solitary tweet was simple, but sweet (at least I thought so): “@kelly_clarkson I joined Twitter specifically to see what you tweet about. I haven’t been disappointed! ”

Hmm. Reading that out loud does sound borderline stalkerish. Oops.

I suppose I could stand out by tweeting her about my allergic reaction? That’s probably something no one has done yet.

Nah, I don’t think publically drawing attention to your bumpy lips is the best way to become fast friends.

I’ll keep you posted.