I Have a Skin Complaint

If you search for ‘rash’ in a thesaurus, it provides ‘skin complaint’ as an alternative. Oops. I didn’t mean to start this web log (aka ‘blog’) as most high school students begin their history essays (“Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘tyranny’ as …”). I’m just saying that ‘skin complaint’ and ‘rash’ have essentially the same definition, but one word will start rumors and the other probably doesn’t elicit any response at all.

I have a skin complaint on my legs. I have a skin complaint about my legs? I’m pretty sure it’s just a wicked case of razor burn, but as the bumps don’t seem to be going away, I finally decided to make an appointment for a professional opinion.

In my place of business, there are no secrets. In the spirit of Bloomberg’s bullpen, the office is set up so that everyone sits in the same open space within eyesight and earshot of everyone else. The walls of the cubes that surround our desks hit at about bridge-of-nose level. If you’ve ever been to a public restroom where the stall door only rises to about your chest when you stand up, it’s a similar concept with a similar feeling; you won’t do anything naughty if everyone can see and hear your business and you feel, well, exposed. While this setup took some getting used to, most of the time I’m fine with it. As far as business is concerned, I’ve got nothing to hide. However, when I’m breaking up with my boyfriend or when I have to call someone about a … um … skin complaint, I’d like some privacy, ok?

Instead of taking a minute to make a personal call (on a cell phone) from the comfort of our own desks, we’re forced to either go out into the hallway (that we share with another company) or go into one of the conference rooms (that have transparent glass walls anyway). There is no option for complete privacy. When making my doctor’s appointment this morning, I elected for the hallway. Everything was going fine until she asked for my insurance ID number. Shit. I left it at my desk. I kept the receptionist on the line while I walked all the way back inside the office and then back to my desk to retrieve my insurance card from my wallet. No big deal; people probably assumed I was ordering a sweater over the phone or something. “What is the purpose of the visit?” Shit. If I had thought that she might have had a thesaurus handy, I would have said, “I have a skin complaint.” Instead, I asked her to hold on another minute while I walked back out into the hallway to tell her, “I have a rash on my legs.” Despite my best efforts, I was still in earshot of a co-worker who was on his way back from the bathroom. While I’m sure he really doesn’t care enough about my skin complaint to mention it to someone else, I simply wouldn’t be surprised if someone else asks me if my condition is improving.

Thanks a lot, Bloomberg.