I’ve always been a mild hypochondriac.
Not to the point where I’ll actively search for possible ailments to suffer from but if something crops ups which has the possibility to be serious I’ll automatically jump to the worst case scenario. Case in point; a small lump on the back of my right leg which I’ve had for about four months. I decided to show someone at work who (reasonably) quickly said “Maybe you should go to the doctors.”
I’d not really thought about it up until this point but suddenly the tiny bump became the focal point of my existence. With death on the horizon my mind went straight to important issues like who’ll inherit my Final Fantasy collection and whether or not I’ll be able to get in another playthrough of IX before the inevitable happens. An appointment is booked and I make my way from work to the local GP, getting as many strangers as possible to look and comment on my leg on the way.
GP’s surgeries are strange places. No matter my reason for being there, as soon as I take a seat in the waiting room I start to develop cold-like symptoms, sneezing, blowing my nose and generally being unpleasant to be around. It’s at this point that I start feeling really self-conscious, like everyone in the room (who, being in a GP’s waiting room, clearly don’t have enough problems of their own and can only think about me) is staring at me and thinking that I’m only here because of a runny nose. It’s all I can do to prevent myself from dropping my trousers and exclaiming “Look at this lump on my leg! This is why I’m here, how dare you judge me. This sudden bout of flu is just the icing on the cake.” It’s probably best for everyone that I remained fully clothed for the entirety of my visit.
After about 10 minutes of everyone shooting filthy glances at each other across the room I hear a female voice say “Christopher Whittle?” I look up “Err, I’m Mark Christopher Whittle.” I say and stand up. “Opps! Sorry about that!” She replies and smiles. There is no reason for her to apologise, surely there is no reason for a vision such as her to ever apologise, for anything. I make a random, flapping hand gesture, sniff loudly and follow her up to her office.
I don’t go to the doctors very often but I seem to remember that every time I’ve been before the doctor has generally been older than me and the whole interaction has felt very parental. This doctor is young has short hair, thick black glasses and a sports some very cool upper-ear piercings. I consider asking if she has any tattoos or is a vegetarian, just to see if she if she’s going fulfil every surface-level quality I hope for but I refrain.
“So what seems to be the problem?” She asks “Ah, I have this lumpy, bump kind of thing on my leg...” I reply coherently. “Well let’s have a look then.” she says and I pull up my trouser leg. As she examines my leg and mentions something about an ingrowing hair and warm compresses my mind races, searching for a relevant, sophisticated and mildly suggestive topic of conversation to try and shoehorn into the situation. This is, after all, the most prolonged physical contact I’ve had with another living being for quite some time (I don’t know if picking leaves off my basil plant counts) so I’m sure you’ll forgive me.
I’m pretty awful when it comes to flirting. I recall discussing with an ex-girlfriend our first kiss and her commenting that it came as a real surprise when I made the move. “Really?” I said “I’d been flirting pretty heavily the last 3 times we went out, didn’t you notice?” She had not noticed. When it comes to flirting, it seems I’m less Casanova and more Solid Snake. Since having this conversation I’ve tried to be a bit more proactive. This has resulted in about the same level of confusion as before for everyone involved.
“So it’s nothing to worry about. What did you think it was?” She’s finished her examination, to be honest I’d forgotten why I was there in the first place. “Oh, er...deadly lumps maybe?” I stammer. “Well, it’s not that, those are the bad lumps.” She points to a poster on the wall showing a variety of different skin conditions. One in particular, some blue bumps on someone’s scalp who has really dark back hair, grabs my attention. This is the moment, this is my way to make a good impression and get a date. “That one looks pretty good, the blue and black contrast is really nice.” I say. She looks quizzically at me before saying “No, I don’t think you’d want that.” “I don’t know.” I say turning and winking at her “I think I’ve got the perfect shoes to match it.”
It would be a lie to say she laughed, if anything she said the word ‘ha’ (no exclamation point). Then there was an uncomfortable silence and then I awkwardly left. The lump may not be serious but I worry that my love life is terminal.
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