In some ways, I am not a girly-girl. I don’t like a lot of pink, I hate it when my boyfriend tells me all that love crap, and I don’t watch rom-coms (or any movies, for that matter).
But in some ways, I am a total girly-girl. I love makeup, clothes, and purses. Oh, and ridiculously cute, but most of the time ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. Today I decided to wear a pair of sad uncomfortable shoes, because who can resist buying and subsequently wearing cheetah-print high heels? That’s correct, no one.
Obviously, these shoes are made for sitting pretty at the office, not walking around. I thought of asking my boyfriend to drop off a pair of flats for me on his way to work, but decided that since I would be just doing a whole lot of sitting around all day, I would be totally fine.
After I got settled in at work, I decided to make myself a nice hot mug of this Chinese peanut drink (if you’re SUPER Chinese, you know exactly what I’m talking about). It’s basically like hot cocoa.. but with peanuts instead. It’s really delicious.
About ten minutes later, I went to smooth down my shirt from the back, and felt bumps on my skin. My initial reaction was that they were just creases from leaning back in my chair. I went to the bathroom to check in the mirror, and nope, these weren’t creases; these were hives.
Slightly worried, I Googled “peanut allergy,” and sure enough, they could take place minutes after ingestion, and hives were a possible symptom. Crap.
I fished out my insurance card and called Cigna’s member hotline to find out who my PCP was. By the way, Cigna HMO is on my shitlist, and that’s a whole other story. After finding out that the PCP I had was NOT accepting new patients (????!?!?!?!?!), I scored an appointment with another doctor, who, I later found out while at the clinic, was a 2nd year resident.
I left work a little early, walked three blocks to get to the bus stop, and my feet were starting to hurt a little from my heels. No biggie – I luckily caught the bus as it drove through the intersection where I was waiting to cross. I didn’t notice that it wasn’t the normal 1-California bus line that goes ALL the way to the Richmond district.
When we were about 5 or 6 blocks from the medical facility, the bus driver announced that he’d come to the last stop. Well, shoot. I was already late, since the bus took longer than I’d anticipated, and I had to get to the clinic stat. I didn’t see a second bus coming, so I had no choice but to start power walking in my very cute, very uncomfortable heels.
After about a block and a half, I noticed a cab sitting at the light. His “FOR HIRE” light wasn’t on, but I didn’t see anyone sitting in the back seat, so I decided to wave at him and ask if he could take me. He shook his head, so I turned and kept walking. Just my luck. However, he rolled down his window and asked where I was going, and I told him I just wanted to go about another 4 blocks. He agreed to take me, and it was the best $7 I’d ever spent in my life (I tipped him an extra few dollars because he was nice).
I went to the 3rd floor of the clinic, only to find out that I had to go check in at the first floor office first. So I went back downstairs, checked in, and went back upstairs, where I was called almost immediately.
After the doctor/resident went through my symptoms, prescribed me an epi-pen and told me to go home, take Benadryl and knock myself out (not literally, but sleep), I left and tried to figure out what to do about getting home. My feet were killing me at this point.
I decided to call a cab, after seeing that my chances of flagging down a cab in the middle of sleepy, peaceful Laurel Heights was slim to none, and after I’d walked down to California Street, I called for a cab. The operator asked where I was, and I said California and Maple. She asked for a building number. Shoot, I’m not anywhere near where I can see a number. I gave her the number of my medical clinic, which was a block away, and I trudged back up the hill one block to the facility.
After a few minutes, my cab arrived, and the driver told me that the operator had given him the wrong address, so he had to circle around until he could find someone who looked like Vicky. The driver was a very large man who wore red pants, a red sweatshirt, and sang and danced along to Elvis’s “Where Do I Go From Here.” When that song ended, he pushed some buttons on his CD player, and on came another Elvis crooner, which he sang and danced to while driving down the windy roads in the Presidio.
I was slightly amused until he neared my place, asked if I could pay cash, and I told him I didn’t have any. He said fine, I could pay with a credit card, and when I asked how much, he saw that he’d forgotten to turn on his meter. He immediately started cursing, so I told him I’d give him $15.
He turned on his meter, which starts at $3.50, and told me that he’d make the tip up so my total would be $15. When I looked at the receipt, it said $17; he’d added the wrong amount for the tip.
Whatever. I just wanted to get out of the cab and go home, so I paid, thinking that if I’d taken the bus, I wouldn’t have survived the three-block walk home, so it was all worth it.
And this is why peanuts and uncomfortable shoes will not come near me any longer.