My first phone call when I got home from Scotland was to the OBGYN. Was she the right person to be treating this? I asked this aloud. Discomfort removes the beat-around-the-bush process. Nice choice of words, huh? They agreed. It was time to see the dermatologist.
Aha, hooray. Bearing my who-ha to another medical professional was just what I had in mind. I honestly would have flashed a bus driver claiming to know about rashes, if I thought he had the answers I was searching for. Desperate times and all.
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These are the two pairs of skinny jeans.
Aren't the paisley ones super cute?
In all seriousness, they were soft like butter.
Thank the Lord for small favors!
There I robbed a young dermatologist of her innocence and guaranteed her several weeks if not months of nightmares. And this is the woman who treats my kids' acne. So, I see her often - under what I once considered bummer circumstances. 'Look how broken out they are!' Sad, pouty mom face vs. me begging her secretly to disassociate me with what she was about to see. 'Look away! Look away! I mean cure me, damn it! But try not to remember that it is my downstairs you are inspecting.'
This is when she asked me what the OBGYN had given me. I called the pharmacist and was embarrassed to learn that it had happened more times than I could even remember. What is wrong with me?
She gave me an ointment for fungal infection. She looked at my feet to see if perhaps I had picked up a fungal infection at the gym and passed it to that particular spot when I stepped into my underwear. No sign of anything though. I admit to occasionally getting sidetracked after my workouts and not always jumping directly in the shower. It could've happened because I was sweaty once and stayed in my sweaty clothes while getting a few things done first.
I had to wonder how an OBGYN couldn't figure this one out. Oh, if only.
Now you know why I didn't go into great detail about my Glasgow trip.