Buttocks

Not too long ago I went to a dermatologist to check out a spot on my leg - just to make sure I didn't need to worry about it.

I gave the nurse my information and waited for the doctor to arrive. A few minutes later a boy - well, I guess technically I should say 'man', but he looked too young to be finished his residency - came into the examining room. He extended his hand with a smirk. "Hi, Emily, I'm Dr. Blah-Blah". (Okay, I thought, so I'm supposed to call this kid who's younger than my baby brother "Dr. Blah-Blah" Fine.)

I showed him my leg and asked him a couple of questions. He answered with a bunch of medical terms that he seemed fairly certain I wouldn't understand, but ultimately deemed it to be 'nothing'. "Great!" I said, getting ready to leave. "Is there anything else you want to talk with me about?" he asked. "Like what?" I said. "Well, the lines on your forehead, for example... We could work on those." Seriously? If I wanted to have 'work' done, I wouldn't go to a three year old for the procedures. And I wouldn't go an arrogant ass... I told him I'd let him know, and left.

Maybe I'll change my mind six months from now - but at the moment I have no intention of injecting Botox into my face. For starters, I hate needles - I was more scared of getting an i.v. when I was about to give birth than I was of the delivery itself. And at this point I'm pretty used to those lines. I've had them since I've been 12 (I use my eyebrows way too much when I talk.)

Today, people do all sorts of things to look good. And I'm not judging anyone. But I don't want anyone trying to manipulate me either. My facialist, an older Czech woman with amazing skin, bosses me around about my cleansing routine, but assures me vehemently, "You don't need Buttocks!"