I planned to spend most of my holiday Monday naked and lounging, but a quick inventory of my remaining crazy pills and exciting new patch of eczema told me I’d be doing otherwise. I reluctantly found myself an assortment of clothes and headed out in the cold November October rain for a trip to the clinic down the road.

I dread going to the clinic, but I don’t have a family doctor yet. As much as I may dislike the random assortment of doctors who don’t really care about my problems, it’s very handy when I just need a quick fix in the form a prescription refill. I gave my name at the desk and was told to take a seat, and did as instructed.

The waiting room was considerably less crazy than I’d seen it in the past, but there were still quite a few people milling about waiting for doctorial attention. I resigned myself for a mid-length wait, and picked up the nearest magazine without babies on the cover.

I was barely three words in when my name was called. The brief flash of disappointment I felt – I really wanted to read that article on colour-changing lipstick – quickly evaporated when I realized that I had been waiting for under a minute, and I was going to get to see a doctor. Score! I should break out in mystery rashes on holiday Mondays more often! I shuffled into a small room, and grabbed another magazine to keep myself occupied.

There would be no reading in this waiting room, either. Within seconds, a doctor appeared through the door.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I have scaly skin and mommy issues.”

“Postpartum or psychological?”

“Definitely the latter.”

“Gotcha. Effexor and Hydrocortisone, coming right up.”

Two minutes later I was out the door and thinking about pumpkin pie.

The clinic may have failed me in spectacular ways in the past, but this time they were for the win. I picked up my prescription (and some bright blue sparkly eyeshadow for good measure) and came home. I have Diet Coke, a kitten sleeping against my bosom, and delicious Thanksgiving leftovers in the fridge. Stuff is good.