Himself and I are leaving Friday morning for St. Petersburg, Florida, where we will stay for at least 2 weeks, maybe 3. How can we do such a thing? Well, we are our own bosses, and even though we are bitches sometimes, after having submitted the proper paperwork in triplicate to ourselves, we have approved an extended working vacation.
HR has the salmon copy if you need to verify it.
I turn fifty-one American years old in three days. I thought I’d celebrate early by seeing a dermatologist this morning. Like you do.
My regular Doc sent me over to have a spot looked at by someone who is really good at looking at spots.
I had to go without make-up, and so right away I’m in no mood. She made me strip to zero things so she could see all my spots in all my places. I’m like a leopard, but with less dead gazelle in my teeth.
“Sher,” said Dermatologist, “I’m going to take a biopsy of the spot on your nose.”
I said, and I quote, “Wait. What? Which now? Right now? Right here? What?”
She assured me that it would be only mildly painful and that this spot was just begging to be looked at under a microscope by someone who is really good at looking at things under microscopes.
Before I could punch her in the uterus, she wiped off my nose with alcohol and shoved a needle in it.
“Satan’s balls!” I screamed… in my head.
She told me now that my nose was numb, she would take a little piece of it and then stitch it up.
“STITCHES! You sorry, goat-licking, skin-looking, lot lizard! Maybelline can’t cover stitches!”
I let her have it…in my head.
What I actually said was, “Perfect.”
The process took about 4 hours although the obviously broken clock registered 39 seconds.
Now I have a bandage on my nose and a single stitch. As I write, the Lidocaine has worn off and while it’s not painful enough to warrant a Morphine smoothie, it’s the tiniest bit uncomfortable. Feels like a bee sting, if a bee shoved a dermatologist’s needle in my nose.
The results will be back in about a week.
The moral of the story is this: don’t be a dumbass and bake in the sun or a tanning bed. And, if your younger self has already done the damage, go see a dermatologist once a year and let them have a look see. It’s the smart thing to do, and if I’d gone earlier maybe I wouldn’t be heading to Florida looking as though I have a single, black, witch like nose-hair waving in the breeze.
Oh, the sexy.
UPDATE: The spot is pre-cancerous. Not cool, Sun. Not cool.