Between the ages of year one and college freshman, I spent every summer moment at the beach. WITH MY SHIRT OFF! Oh yeah ladies!
Sorry. Anyway, combine this with my Viking complexion and I am the nation’s most likely candidate to need a complete skin transplant. With this in mind, when the G noticed a mole that had changed shape on my back, I did the responsible thing and waited four and half years to have it looked at.
The good doctor commended my epidermal assiduousness, took a quick look at my 6mm beauty mark and declared that there was nothing to worry about. He said that while my beautiful golden tan had served me well with the senoritas on the Jersey Shore, my skin was not in full revolt due to overexposure. However, let’s get that mammajamma off you anywhose, just to be safe.
I assumed this would require another visit but the procedure takes less time than it does to clip your nails. I felt a little Novocain prick and twenty seconds later it’s “Robin, get this specimen to the Batcomputer, STAT!” The divot, however, is substantial and itches like hell. And I’m starting to get separation anxiety.
The punch card results came back yesterday and I’m happy to report that the only malignant thing about me is my soul. But the doctor wanted a baseline reading for any future mutations so he asked for a full body visual scan. First he checked the scalp using a blowdryer (which messed up my fancy ‘do) followed by an oral exam for moles that are somehow in my mouth. Next it was the chest, back, arms, legs and literally the space between my toes. Finally, he asked that I drop my “underpants” and checked places where, um, traditionally the sun doesn’t shine.
Diagnosis: I’m free of offensive moles and am a proper dermatological shade of pale. It almost makes the 4 years of spousal nagging worth it.