But since I did not want to disappoint my friend who seemed pretty much convinced that he was doing humanity a great favor (I never realized my mug is really worth all that trouble), I relented and went off for my session with this doctor who, I realized later when it was too late to back out, must have trained at one of the Nazi camps during the Holocaust.
She took one look at my mug. Took out a magnifying glass (at least that is what it looked like) and promptly began applying some ointment on the fat deposits in question. She said they were technically called "milla" (again, that what was it sounded like, I could be mistaken because I was so focused on figuring out what the ointment was going to do to my face) and that the painless way to remove them was to lose weight. Ha! I nearly laughed hysterically upon hearing the word "painless" because since when was losing weight ever painless? Obviously, losing weight was not going to be an easy option so we proceeded with the "procedure."
It involved electrocution and some "extraction."
And boy, was it painful! Even with the topical anaesthesia (it turned out that was what the ointment was, silly me, I thought they were some magic potion that would make those blasted fat deposits evaporate) the procedure was excruciatingly, awfully, horribly, terribly painful! I am not being a baby here, I actually take pride in having a high threshold for pain (I am a "political" blogger for crying out loud, I am used to being attacked and bludgeoned to death).
As I lay there silently whimpering and plotting all kinds of vengeful acts I would subject my well-meaning friend to as soon as I got out of that concentration camp, I couldnt help but wonder whatever torture vain people have to put up with regularly. I actually was not alone in that clinic at that time, there were at least four other people who were receiving "treatment." One hapless guy was having injections on his face - apparently, the easiest way to remove stubborn pimples. I cringed at the thought of having my face pierced with needles a number of times. Someone else was having the same procedure I was undergoing, except that in his case, the fat deposits were minor (the doctor said I should have visited sooner when the fat deposits in my face were still smaller; yeah, I thought, like I would willingly submit myself to this torture). Someone else was having a facial. This is indicative of my ignorance about such things because I really thought a facial was something that simply involved applying some gooey stuff on one's face. I am now wiser and more wordly, I know that a facial involves some instruments that dermatologists or their assistants use to prick, pry, press whatever unsightly blemishes are on one's face.
And so, after two hours that seemed like forever, the doctor pronounced the procedure done. I took a quick look at my face and almost screamed. I looked like I had the worst case of chicken pox! The doctor prescribed antibiotics (I have to take a whole dosage and further pickle my liver for the sake of vanity, there's a convincing argument), some more ointments, and told me not to wash my face for three days (I nearly choked on that one; but perhaps to assuage me, she plied me with more products that I can use instead to cleanse my face. Whoever said it wasn't a money making venture anyway, sigh).
And here I am stuck inside my house wondering what I am going to tell my officemates and my students tomorrow when they see my pockmarked face. I just hope they don't run away screaming.
Ah, the price we have to pay for vanity.