The Crud Has Stopped Creeping

Man how lucky am I? I woke up this morning and said to the lovely Mrs. Sneed, "Dear, I hope today is the worst day for the stock markets since 9/11. But that is probably too much to ask for." One of the depressing things about getting old is that you find yourself in places that are a stark reminder of that fact. The dermatologist's office for instance. You don't want to find yourself in the dermatologist's office, because it is filled with other, even older geezers, sitting around waiting to see the doctor about their skin ailments. Plus, some of the old buzzards have been escorted to the joint by their spouse. Should the day arrive that the lovely Mrs. Sneed finds the need to accompany me to the doctor, I invite the world to use me for target practice. I suffer from a condition called Prurigo Nodularis, which is characterized by small hard knots that itch like a, and this is a medical term, sumabitch. The sufferer scratches at them, making matters worse. Helpful people point out that the situation would improve if the sufferer would just stop scratching. I like to tell people that they would sound less stupid if they would just stop talking. One guy asked me if I was contagious, while sheltering his lunch with his body. I pretended to count the days on my fingers, before announcing, "Not after tomorrow." For those who choose to Google Prurigo Nodularis, bear in mind that I don't look as bad as the people in the pictures. Those are severe cases. Dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and gloves, I look practically normal. Prurigo Nodularis is worse than acne, but definitely better than flesh-eating bacteria. The treatment for this disorder, at least in my case, is steroid injections directly into the sites and a topical steroid cream. This is as unpleasant as it sounds. I have been going for treatment for eleven months now and things are improving. Health authorities no longer advise people to cross the street when I approach them. I had an appointment with the dermatologist today. When I arrived and checked in, and rather than sitting among the living dead, I stood against the wall by the door, pretending I wasn't one of them. I occupied myself, by studying the faces and playing a little game I'll call, "He's way older than me". The lone non-geriatric present was a teenage girl who came in right after me. I thought I might sidle over say something like, "What's up with all the old folks?" But her mom, at woman 15 years my junior, might have mistaken my intentions and called the authorities. One thing worse than being in the dermatologist's office, is being dragged from it, with a raincoat tossed over your head. So, the doctor commented on the improvement in my skin problem, shot my right arm up with a million little steroid injections and made some small talk. I have a lab appointment for tomorrow, and then I get to do it all over again next month. Tomorrow is that command meeting in Phoenix that we are being forced to attend. Regretfully, I have to go for a lab test on some of my lumps and will miss the meeting. Having this procedure on the same day as the mandatory meeting might seem suspicious to Randall Bing. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgemental and cranky Tag: Daily Life Personal Finance Humor