Today I made the long, arduous trek to the dermatologist. Actually, it was neither long or arduous, I just like being dramatic.
I've gotten to be pretty comfortable with dermatologist in general since it was determined in 1990 that tanning beds were 'very bad' for the skin. It was probably determined long before that but when a naturally fair-skinned girl's getting ready for prom, nothing will stand in the way of a good tan. Not even that funny burned-flesh smell that sticks around for a few days. Nothing.
In 1995, my dermatologist found a little somethin' somethin' on my shoulder and it took four different attempts before it was finally and forever removed. Finally and forever until it comes back.
The beauty is now I have a giant scar where the small dot of questionable cells was. So, I traded up. I guess.
Today, I was back for my semi-annual check up but needed to go to a new dermatologist because insurance changed and blah, blah, blah, why am I boring you with all these details? I don't know. Maybe because I'm supposed to be downstairs making Spanish rice for 50, or cleaning my house, or parenting my children or something.
It was a great visit until I remembered the, um, full body check that I have to undergo every time I go in. I sure wished I hadn't been so worried about panty-lines when I left the house this morning.
After discussing my abnormal moles, removing a couple of things without the use of an epidural which is clearly necessary, addressing both my wrinkles and my pimples (which makes me think someone messed up somewhere), and my sun damage, etc. my new dermatologist concluded, "You're going to be a great patient."
I'm pretty sure that's not a good thing.