Editor’s note: Chloe Malle is a writer recently relocated to her native New York City. She moved from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, where she worked for an American physician at the local Mother Teresa Clinic and taught English. She has written for publications such as The Huffington Post, EscapeArtist.com, Tadias Magazine and What’s Up Addis. A graduate of Brown University, Chloe studied Literary Arts and Comparative Literature. She likes all animals except rodents and enjoys collaging and beading in her free time.

I called my dermatologist’s office. His assistant, Fran, answered the phone.

"Dr. Feinberg’s office. How can I help you?"

"Oh, hi Fran. It’s Chloe Malle. I was just wondering if I could schedule an appointment to have my moles documented."

"Ohh-kay." The two syllables are drawn out exposing Fran’s failure to multitask as she checks her computer agenda for vacancies.

"OK, now do you need it to be before or after work?"

"Umm, no, I’m … well, I’m unemployed. So anytime is really fine."

I had held my breath after revealing the fact that I was unemployed. I waited for some dark cloud of judgment to open up above me and begin torrentially raining doubt and surprise. "Why isn’t she employed? Who is this dilettante? Has she no ambition?"

"Oh, OK. Well, what about Thursday the 17th at 11 AM?"

I was shocked. It was inconceivable to me that Fran didn’t care that I was unemployed. Fran didn’t even wonder why I was unemployed and Fran certainly didn’t judge me for being unemployed. Fran had other things she cared about; Fran had, for instance, her own life that didn’t revolve around me.

This would be the first in my own 12-step program aimed to teach me that, in fact, people didn’t care about my life as much as I feared they did. They just didn’t have the time, or the energy. They barely had the energy to care about their own lives. I would come to view this as my own personal Alcoholics Anonymous — Chloe Malle’s 12-Step Program: Self-Absorption Anonymous. I admitted I was powerless over the thoughts and judgments of others. I had 11 steps to go.

Fran had stopped breathing into the receiver, which meant she had finished inputting my appointment details into the computer. Scanning the information in my file she breaks the moment of silence that allowed me so much time for thinking.

"Oh, yes, you were in Africa. Botswana, right." It wasn’t really a question.

"Ethiopia."

"Yeah." As if Ethiopia specified a place in Botswana, rather than a different country and corner of the continent.

"Oh, so is that why the doctor wants to have your moles documented? Shouldn’t he have done that before you went to Africa?"

"Well, no. I think he thought they were fine before I left but he just wanted to document them for the future."

"Oh. So this has nothing to do with Botswana?" she asked, disappointed and confused.

"OK then, Fran, I’ll see you next Thursday. Happy after-Labor Day!" I don’t know why I wished Fran a happy "after-Labor Day." It was a weird thing to say but I didn’t think it mattered that much. I was wrong.

Fran was on it: "Honey, there’s nothing happy about ‘after Labor Day.’ Everything begins again."

And there you had it, in one mouthful Fran articulated all of my anxieties and she wasn’t even aware of it. I said good-bye and hung up the phone.