Okay, so I don't like to bitch too much on my Facebook status. It makes you look like a total schmuck. I've decided that this is the way for me to express how I feel when my FB statuses begin to get too wordy. Of course, you don't have to read this. I mean, who the hell really gives a crap what some piss ant such as myself has to say. If you are still reading, however, thank you.
Now, for my bitching of the day...My foot has been killing me since I started competetively running again about four months ago. I was in denial and kept running and doing Zumba. I finally broke down and went to the podiatrist today.
At the advice of my amazing insurance company Avmed, I went to Dr. Kopelfelfter (or something like that). Yeah, that's how much of an impression he left on me. I don't even remember what the hell his name is. What I do remember is how shittily the building which houses his office was maintained. It was dark and smelly, with wretched wallpaper from, oh, I'd say circa 1976. The first lovely, smiling (ha ha) face I saw as I entered was that of the receptionist. Evidently, "hello" is passe. As I smiled and asked her how she was doing today, she ever so politely said, " What's the name?" I should have turned around and limped out then. However, I believe that everyone has bad days, and I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Sitting down with my heap of paperwork (mostly for medicaid-which obviously wasn't meant for me), I took a look around the musty, retro waiting room. I guess this was the day one of the Assisted Living Facilities in the area had scheduled to deliver residents via short bus to the foot doctor. All of them had about 84 years on me (obviously, I'm slightly exaggerating).
Immediately upon finishing my paperwork, the door opened, and my name was called. The announcer, a girl who looked like she had just left an Insane Clown Posse show, practically threw my driver's license and insurance card at me. She sneered as she looked me up and down once, and said, "come with me". I was waiting for her to follow that statement up with, "to the dark side", but that didn't happen. Again, I smiled and asked how she was doing today. Through her pierced tongue and lip, she yawned, ripped off the crusty bed paper, and walked away. As she walked away, I noticed through her severely acne-covered face (probably from all the meth she appeared to be doing), a series of stars tattooed around her ears and face. Nice. I'm sure that's just what Harold and Ethel want to see as they're being guided to a room to have a bunion shaved.
Within a minute, a tall, scruffy, dirty gentlemen walked in and sat down. He looked at me, saying nothing. Finally, I said, "Are you Dr. Kobplrgfopwiej (or whatever it was)?" "Yeah", he said. Really? This douchebag wearing filthy scrubs, reeking of cigarettes is my doctor? I've seen cleaner people coming out of rooms at the Mosley Motel (local reference for a fleabag motel-fyi). He looked at my feet and asked, "do you run in shoes with more support than those"? I looked at my shoes. I'm wearing a pair of high-heeled sandals. I wanted to say, "No, these ARE my running shoes", but I figured, if I want this pain to go away, it'll have to get worse before it gets better. He examined my foot, pushed on a spot until I yelped in pain, and turned around and left the room. He came back with a needle. He said, "You're gonna feel some pressure", which means, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch". He gave me the shot and walked out of the room. Never telling me what was wrong. I later learned, through yelling down the hall at him, what was wrong with me. I then looked at the pleasant ray of sunshine sitting behind the desk and asked, "Is he done with me?" She simply replied, "Yeah" and handed me the bill.
I'm supposed to stay off my foot, and go back in a week so he can see if the inflammation has decreased. I asked two of the nurses if they had any suggestions for exercises I can do until my foot heals. They both answered, "Nope. Sorry." Thanks a pantload for your help, Dr. kopelikyugh (or whatever it is) and your staff. I now have a greater respect for my gynecologist. At least she hugs me when she's done violating me.
