About two weeks ago, I drug my sorry self to the dermatologist to get carved up. I hadn’t been for a while, and I was pretty sure he would want to slice a couple of things off my very pale skin.
I was nervous because SCALPEL. I felt nauseated when I walked into the waiting room. But as I made my way to the desk, I realized that the music playing was Neil Diamond’s “Love on the Rocks.” And because I’m actually 87 years old, I quickly identified the recording as an alternate version, not the single.
Neil comforted me.
I was the only person in the waiting room who wasn’t a teenager with acne or an old farmer who never wore sunscreen a day in his life. I was just so-white-I-glow-in-the-dark little me, making my offering of flesh to the gods of dermatology, even though I wear sunscreen every damned day.
I love the guy I see. And the good news is that the stuff I was sure would make him recoil … didn’t. The bad news is that the weird bumps along my jaw that I’ve lived with for about four years? Totally alarming.
I guess the other bad news was that it was mega cold that day and I was layered up in Uggs and fleece pants and like 17 sweaters. And while taking the biopsy from my jawline was painless and took about 7 seconds, the stitches took forever and made me woozy.
Suddenly it was all, “Bend your knees! Talk to us!”
It was fine. Well, fine except for the fact that I ended up drenched in sweat. I got to experience a sweaty underwire in the deepest depths of winter. Thanks, derm!
So, I was OK, and I left. But I ended up sitting in the lobby of the medical building for about 20 minutes, trying to stop feeling so insane. So, I did what any woman in my position would do: I checked my email, saw that Nordstrom was having a flash sale on my favorite bras, and then bought three bras at a deep discount … all while rocking a sweaty January bra and trying to avoid eye contact with the mean old lady who was complaining at the top of her lungs about the granddaughter who had just dropped her off and was going to park the car.
Good bras make a real difference.
Then, I drove to the QT and bought a ginger ale and a York peppermint patty. And I declared triumph over evil, over nausea, over weird skin stuff.
|Because Joe Biden is always appropriate.|
Turns out I have some rare, weird – yet totally benign – skin thing that is not unlike having uterine fibroids. I’m not making this up – they can be related. Because of course they are.
No word yet on treatment, but we’re calling it Ute Face. It seems fitting, since this business popped up when I was trying to no avail to get knocked up. I didn’t get a baby, but I got uterine fibroids on my face. It’s practically the same thing, right?