Fine. I will admit it. I am a woman of a 'certain' age. And with that age comes great responsibility. Well, not really. It just means more maintenance. So:
Due to my advanced age, maternal history and twenty seven years in the Health Service industry (read that standing for at least 10 hours a day) I developed a gross, ropey vein on my right leg. In fact, it had grown so much it was now an entity who answered to the name Vein-essa. Vein-essa had taken to kicking people in movie theaters when they wouldn't shut up and so it was decided she had to go.
Which resulted in me sitting in a freezing exam room in a pair of shorts. Part one of my recurring nightmare.
The Doctor walked in and greeted us with "Whoa! I can see from here why you came in!"
Thanks Doc. Just what I wanted to hear. Vein-essa pulsated "Hello Big Boy" in Morse code. (Did I mention she is something of a skank?)
The consult was a two part, two visit affair with examination, treatment options, payment plans, insurance referrals, pictures, ultrasound and payment options. Did I mention the pictures? The photo session was part of visit two. Let me paint you a picture: Me, Vein-esse, athletic shorts, no socks, and Leopard Print Pumps. Lovely.
It was determined that only Lasers would evict Vein-essa. Lasers. You know, those things we fire at terrorists and moon aliens. I straightened my shorts, turned on my leopard print heels and made the appointment.
Vein-esse requested two 8x10 glossies on the way out.
|$20 at Kmart, priceless at the Vein Clinic|
(coming soon – Attack of the 30 ml syringe full of PAIN or Buh-Bye Little Vein-essa)