This week I made my annual pilgrimage to the dermatologist’s office. I make my appointment at least a year in advance because as you might imagine, living in Florida now, there is standing room only in the waiting room.
This last visit prompted me to write a letter in my head to my 16 year old self. It went something like this:
“When packing for those Spring Break trips to South Padre Island, just put the baby oil back into your mother’s medicine cabinet and back away slowly. You will never tan. Ever. The best you can hope for is a bright lobster red. Which will then clash with your orange hair after you discover Sun-In. When you are 50, which I realize is just one foot in the grave, one foot on a banana peel close to death, you will be grateful for this advice.”
During this particular dermatologist visit, I had a few things fried from my body. There were two raised spots on my legs that the doctor was afraid I would eventually shave off accidentally. I am now thinking that the shaving would have been the way to go, judging from the amount of screaming in my head.
The freezing aspect of the ordeal was more like a white hot searing pain that rivaled childbirth. But without the really fun drugs.
Next, her attention settled on my nose, which she declared pre-cancerous. “MY WHOLE NOSE?” No, she explained, but there were spots that need removing. I eyed the torture device used to burn holes in my legs. She quickly assured me that because it was MY NOSE, she would go the route of prescribing a cream that would slowly burn off the spots.
Oh, yes. A slow torture. That’s more appealing.
She warned me that I may have a couple of uncomfortable weeks, some pronounced redness, and SCABBING.
Party at my house.