Yesterday The Boy and I did something so completely coupley it makes me cringe a bit--not necessarily in a bad way, but I am rolling my eyes nonetheless. Once, when The Boy and I started dating, we visited a friend of his who owned a garage, and The Boy asked me to put some lippies on him, and I swear I thought his friend almost fell over with the force of his vomit as he watched me lovingly apply lip balm to my dear boy's amazing mouth. What we did yesterday was not nearly as revolting.
We had a joint dermatology visit for a full-body skin check. Unfortunately, we were made to sit in separate rooms, which just meant we texted each other the whole time. The PA circled a few of my moles--more out of my annoyance with them than a true worry that they might be cancerous. I asked her if removing them would be billed as cosmetic, and she told me that no, they send it to the insurance company as "an irritated mole." This cracked my shit up something serious. Yes, it is no surprise that someone as grumpy as myself has irritated moles. I'm just shocked that someone is so willing to deal with them. I would tell my moles to fuck off and get over themselves. Irritated indeed.
Thus, I had three moles removed and The Boy had two. He is so miffed that he didn't realize sooner that it really is just that easy to waltz in to a dermatologist's office and demand to be cleansed of irritated moles. He had his thripple removed. I can give no more details than that. There was another one on his back that I think I may miss a bit. It was really gross and squeezable. (Boy: If you're reading this, stop crying, and remember that I love you very much.) The first time we hooked up and I ran my hands down his back, I thought a small creature had taken up residence near the lumbar area of his spine. My first instinct was to attempt a good flick to evict it. It was only a momentary blip in an otherwise very sexy encounter. I'm still with him seven years lo, so I obviously got over it. But just think, I've been suffering with its intrusive presence for so long, I had really gotten used to it and accepted it as part of my loving relationship. Not anymore--that's all gone now!
The mole removal was very easy--I played Angry Birds the whole time. I did not pass the level, though. Sad. Stupid smell of burning skin was really throwing off my game. The memory of which did not help the fact that I felt like someone was continuously putting out a cigarette between my shoulder blades for the rest of the day. That sensation has thankfully abated.
The good news (that I am taking as bad news) is that the spot on my forehead is not cancerous, and therefore does not need to be removed. I know I should be saying thank my lucky stars, but seriously, this just means I can't get plastics in to fix me. It's just a boring ol' sun spot. I have spent the past 2.5 decades applying copious amounts of sunblock to my face and body. I refused to swim in the ocean and frolic on the beach. I was yelled at for swaddling myself in a towel and ruining the family vacation for not enjoying myself in the sun. Seriously. I'm not making that up at all. I laughed at my sister who would cover herself in cooking oil and lay out in the driveway of our Texas house in the middle of summer. She smelled so nasty. Yet, strangely, I would get hungry. Anyway. Point being, I have taken great pains to avoid the sun most of my life (while still doing my best to spend time outside, because it was warm and felt good) to end up with fucking brown sun spots on my face in my mid-30s. UNFAIR! The PA was sympathetic, enough so that she totally sold me in to buying $130 of skincare products. I'm such a sucker. A vain sucker who wants to be pretty forever and ever. Therefore I am to apply some fancy expensive sunscreen to my face every morning, and then some fancy expensive bleach-lightener stuff every morning and evening in hopes that my sun spots become less visible, and I become fabulously more beautiful with an even skin tone. It's kind of like praying every night before going to bed: It probably won't do jack shit, but it doesn't hurt to try. Other than it may make me go broke, and the last time I checked, praying was free.
We had a joint dermatology visit for a full-body skin check. Unfortunately, we were made to sit in separate rooms, which just meant we texted each other the whole time. The PA circled a few of my moles--more out of my annoyance with them than a true worry that they might be cancerous. I asked her if removing them would be billed as cosmetic, and she told me that no, they send it to the insurance company as "an irritated mole." This cracked my shit up something serious. Yes, it is no surprise that someone as grumpy as myself has irritated moles. I'm just shocked that someone is so willing to deal with them. I would tell my moles to fuck off and get over themselves. Irritated indeed.
Thus, I had three moles removed and The Boy had two. He is so miffed that he didn't realize sooner that it really is just that easy to waltz in to a dermatologist's office and demand to be cleansed of irritated moles. He had his thripple removed. I can give no more details than that. There was another one on his back that I think I may miss a bit. It was really gross and squeezable. (Boy: If you're reading this, stop crying, and remember that I love you very much.) The first time we hooked up and I ran my hands down his back, I thought a small creature had taken up residence near the lumbar area of his spine. My first instinct was to attempt a good flick to evict it. It was only a momentary blip in an otherwise very sexy encounter. I'm still with him seven years lo, so I obviously got over it. But just think, I've been suffering with its intrusive presence for so long, I had really gotten used to it and accepted it as part of my loving relationship. Not anymore--that's all gone now!
The mole removal was very easy--I played Angry Birds the whole time. I did not pass the level, though. Sad. Stupid smell of burning skin was really throwing off my game. The memory of which did not help the fact that I felt like someone was continuously putting out a cigarette between my shoulder blades for the rest of the day. That sensation has thankfully abated.
The good news (that I am taking as bad news) is that the spot on my forehead is not cancerous, and therefore does not need to be removed. I know I should be saying thank my lucky stars, but seriously, this just means I can't get plastics in to fix me. It's just a boring ol' sun spot. I have spent the past 2.5 decades applying copious amounts of sunblock to my face and body. I refused to swim in the ocean and frolic on the beach. I was yelled at for swaddling myself in a towel and ruining the family vacation for not enjoying myself in the sun. Seriously. I'm not making that up at all. I laughed at my sister who would cover herself in cooking oil and lay out in the driveway of our Texas house in the middle of summer. She smelled so nasty. Yet, strangely, I would get hungry. Anyway. Point being, I have taken great pains to avoid the sun most of my life (while still doing my best to spend time outside, because it was warm and felt good) to end up with fucking brown sun spots on my face in my mid-30s. UNFAIR! The PA was sympathetic, enough so that she totally sold me in to buying $130 of skincare products. I'm such a sucker. A vain sucker who wants to be pretty forever and ever. Therefore I am to apply some fancy expensive sunscreen to my face every morning, and then some fancy expensive bleach-lightener stuff every morning and evening in hopes that my sun spots become less visible, and I become fabulously more beautiful with an even skin tone. It's kind of like praying every night before going to bed: It probably won't do jack shit, but it doesn't hurt to try. Other than it may make me go broke, and the last time I checked, praying was free.
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