For 25 Bucks (Part II)

Unlike the other moles which were taken care of by my new magic potion of Ecuadorian proportions, this one never really went away. So I buckled and made an appointment with the dermatologist, and decided that while I was at it I would go ahead and have them do my annual full body mole check. (Almost as exciting as it sounds - think “Whack-A-Mole” for nerds, and replace the hitting with a magnifying glass.)

The office assistant at the counter checked me in, “It looks like your co-pay will be $25.” I handed over my credit card and tried to ignore the fact that I was about to get naked and let a guy look me over with a magnifying glass and I was paying HIM! I could just see all the hookers in Denver, standing in a corner watching me, shaking their heads and mumbling, “*Tsk*Tsk* What a rookie.” I took a seat, then somewhere between the 3-year-old blond girl head butting the couch next to me and page 293 of InStyle magazine’s interview with Anne Hathaway, the nurse called me in. As we entered the room she took a seat across from me, let out a sigh and began firing her questions, “So, have you ever had any blistering sunburns?”

The next fifteen minutes consisted of a microscopic violation, a picture taken of my back (Say, “cheese”! Not you, silly. YOU.), a needle to my face to remove a small cyst, a shot to my chest to numb the area (so let me get this straight, you’re going to prick me with the sting of death (“little poke” my *%@!), and force me to clench my fists until my palms bleed SO THAT IT WON’T HURT?), followed by a biopsy and a promise not to post my photos on the internet.

All for twenty-five bucks.

It’s not that I’m not grateful to have the insurance that allows me to only pay $25 for an office visit, it’s just that as I lay there with a strange man checking me out with his specs, saying things like, “This mole is misbehaving,” and me responding, “Then put it in time out,” I couldn’t help but think that I would rather buy 4 Chipotle burritos with that money. I could buy lunch for FOUR DAYS! Heck, for twenty-five bucks I could pay to get my bike fixed, ride around the reservoir, and still afford 7 slurpees. I could download 20 iTunes songs, visit a state park and rent a paddle boat, or buy chocolate and a David Sedaris book at Borders. At the very least, surely I could hire a maid to come clean a toilet, wipe a window or two, and bribe her with a diet Coke to stay and watch a movie with me to make it appear that I have friends. Sure, the white collar and black dress might give her away, but what about all those other maids who would be like, “You got paid to do WHAT?” And she’d be like, “I know!” and then they would be lining up all the way down the block, which could greatly enhance my image. But that is not the point. The point is, it would only cost me twenty-five bucks.

Instead, the only thing I have to show for it is a Cetaphil sample, a couple of packets of polysporin and a few bandaids. Oh yeah, and a shirt from Costco. $24.99. What’s fair is fair.