Doctor’s offices have a distinct smell. The overpowering rush of antiseptic and mothballs invaded my senses as I rushed in to make my 2:15 appointment. Glad that I had made it in the nick of time, I found an empty chair and pulled out my tattered copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, figuring that I would at least be able to read a chapter. After 45 minutes, I had made a generous dent in the story and had still not been called back. I guess the intensity of my eye roll caught the attention of another member of the waiting room, because as my tired eyes finished their rolling adventure, I noticed a graying man with a cane smirking in my direction. I took that as a sign that I was justified in my frustration. As I looked around the seemingly empty waiting room, I happened to notice the demographic. I was easily the youngest member, and the nurse who finally called my name made sure to express the sentiment.

When we reached the room that would serve as a make-shift waiting room, the nurse apologized for the wait and told me that I was the youngest patient she had encountered that day. Boy, that made me feel stellar. She took down all the required information and informed me that as soon as a room was available, I would be transferred once again. Once she excited the room, I pulled out my phone to respond to a few texts. Not even halfway through the first response, I was lead into yet another room, which is where I would wait another excruciating hour for the good doctor.

Another nurse entered requesting a description of the pain I was experiencing. The point of the visit was a follow-up on all the physical therapy I had been receiving for my feet. After describing in as much detail as I could, the kind nurse walked over to the patient chair and began adjusting the recline motion and height of the chair. At one point it felt as if I would catapult backwards off the mahogany colored leather seat.

She then proceeded to raise me up as high as the chair would allow, and for what, I’m not entirely sure. I was probably about three feet off the ground. I am pretty short, so this would be a challenge to leap down. The nurse also raised the footrest, which made me look like a child sitting in the chair waiting for her lollipop at the end of her routine visit.

The nurse finally left, and I was sat so high that I was level with the low-quality art piece hanging on the puce wall. After twiddling my thumbs for about twenty minutes in utter silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed at least my phone to amuse myself. I knew I could climb out of the chair like a child escaping from her high chair; the problem would be getting back onto the chair. I managed to hop down and grab my phone, and now the challenge began. I placed my phone in my pocket, assessing the height difference and possible means to getting back up. After three attempts at hopping onto the seat, I managed to hoist my petite frame up with minimal damage to the now ripped paper seat cover.

Pleased that I could now at least entertain myself with a mindless scroll through Instagram, I happened to notice that the battery was almost empty. As luck would have it, I would be stuck with nothing to amuse myself for another half hour because there was no way I was getting off the chair again. I knew as soon as I would have attempted the doctor would have walked in. I would have been caught in the act, which would have been an unnecessary embarrassment after a day of waiting.

Finally, the doctor walked into the room, and it was a good thing because I had to use the restroom. My small bladder did not appreciate the long wait. The appointment went a little different than I had expected because while I was the youngest patient, I had more in common with the typical geriatric than I would like to admit. I found out that orthopedic shoes were a must, and this was what I had dreaded most. My mind immediately conjured up images of elegant dresses paired with clunky Velcro sneakers. Thank the Lord that I was able to find a company that makes fashionable shoes. They say women will endure any amount of pain to look good, and I can assure you that there is so much truth to the saying.

Before leaving the office, I was fitted with a hideous ankle brace and handed a paper bag with an additional accessory. Inside the bag sat compression socks; you know those starkly white or black socks your grandfather wears with the chunky black sneakers? They were the type of socks given to me in a little “goodie” bag for future use. I have never felt older than I did that day.

That day was yet another glimpse into what my future will be if I don’t take the necessary precautions now. So, if you ever see me rocking compression socks and clunky Velcro sneakers, you know why. But in all seriousness, I am glad that I finally received a professional opinion even though it’s going to be a rough day when I purge all my wonderfully expensive shoes. I will have to spend a pretty penny to replace my taste in footwear, but it will be worth it in the end. My addiction to coffee has definitely kept me sane, especially when it involves a woman and her shoe collection. However, I will get through it because I realized that it shouldn’t matter what shoes I wear. As long as I keep spilling the truth about coffee everything else will eventually fall into place.