Eats, Writes, and Leaves

How does my adventure as the Designated Friend at a boutique dermatology clinic today qualify as “travel?” Because I visited a land I’d never traveled to before.

And yet, this clinic lies only a few short miles from my home in San Jose.

My friend Miss B and found the place after only a few moments of searching–an office in an unassuming newer medi-style building a few blocks away from Good Sam Hospital.

In the lobby, I almost turned around and walked back out to check the sign and be sure we were in the right place. Most doctors’ offices I know don’t feature 6-foot fountains, flat-screen TVs playing soothing exotic travel videos, or glass cases filled with overpriced skin creams. Nor do you get to park your rear on a chic black sofa or a fully-functional massage chair and choose from three dozen of this month’s top lifestyle magazines. The bottled water chills in a narrow brushed-aluminum wine-cooler style fridge, and the articles featuring the doctor in local magazines hang in perfect frames on the walls. This isn’t a doctor’s office, this is a day spa. In Palm Springs.

Perched on the marble-topped coffee table I saw an advertisement for an FDA Approved Eyelash Lengthening Treatment I couldn’t bring myself to examine in detail. (Do you take pills? Rub cream into the edges of your eyelashes? Freebase?)

All employees of the clinic, save only the Doc herself, wear all black, all the time.

In the exam room, a smaller flat-screen played a slide show demonstrating the “benefits” of the various medi-cosmetic services offered by the clinic. Miss B and I are not overly impressed, especially after our real-life view of the preternaturally tight skin stretched motionless across the receptionist’s face.

The dermatologist is actually a sweet woman with a friendly, slightly manic bedside manner. Miss B gets her moles checked in about 5 minutes and all is well. We find our way past the chest-high arrangement of multicolored fuzzy plastic balls on sticks and the clusters of circular mirrors in the hallway.

As we exit through the waiting room, something that looks like a miniature hair dryer leaps off the wall behind me. Miss B explains that she thinks it’s a microderm abrasion tool, or perhaps a skin-enhancing chemical delivery mechanism. She’s not really sure–she’s even less a “girly girl” than I am.

I am proud of myself–at no point during the 20-minute wait in the reception area, nor the brief sojourn in the exam room, did I burst into hysterical laughter.

People travel to other cities–even other states–to go to this kind of doctor. Seriously. I’ve read about it. It certainly was an adventure!