This morning at an ungodly pre-coffee hour I had a doctor’s appointment.

See, I have moles.  Lots and lots and lots of moles.  Also, freckles.   But mostly moles.  And these moles, they have been a cause of concern since I was small.  One of my earliest memories is from when I was four and I had to have a mole on the top of my head removed, and they had to give me a series of shots to numb the area and the nurse told my mom I had been very brave and then for days afterwards there was medical tape from the wound always sticking to my hair.  It was the first and last time anyone ever thought I was brave in the face of a needle, but my shot-phobia is another post for another day.

(My father also has moles, but he at least has the excuse of having played beach volleyball for a living for several years in a Time Before Sunscreen.  I have always been slathered with SPF 1 million and have never once made my living as a semi-professional player of beach sports, so I’m not quite sure why I won the skin irregularity lottery, but it’s probably genetic. Thanks, Dad!  Love you!)

Because of my moles, I have to submit to annual humiliation fests called mole checks.  For those of you blessed with easy-tanning, mole-free skin, a mole check is when you go to the office of your father’s ancient dermatologist, smile politely as he shoots the shit with you about your dad’s golf game and then try not to wince when he asks you to take off all your clothes while he inspects your dermis with a magnifying glass and a little blue light.   It is awesome.  Except not.

Except my father’s ancient dermatologist died.  No joke.  I had to find a new dermatologist.

So it was that this morning, at an ungodly pre-coffee hour, I found myself entering a strange medical office building and riding the elevator with a pleasantly cute guy up to the dermatology floor, filling out a series of insurance forms, and changing into a little blue gown to wait my turn for the doctor.

Of course, the doctor was the cute guy from the elevator.  And when he asked if he might pull down my underpants to check the dermis of my private regions (did I mention the excruciating humiliation fest?  Made all the more excruciating when it’s the cute 30-something doctor who smiled at you in the elevator who is examining that unsightly mole on your right boob and asking to pull down your underpants for a decidedly unsexy reason?) it wasn’t until a second too late that I realized it:

I was wearing my old, saggy, (clean, but still spotted with a few impossible to remove remnants of periods past) last pair before laundry day granny underpants.

And then he told me that I need to have three moles removed, but don’t worry, he thinks only two of them might be basal cell carcinoma, and that I’m not guaranteed to get malignant melanoma in my lifetime, it’s only, like a 50% chance! So not to worry!   And then the feeling of wanting to die of embarrassment was mostly replaced by a feeling that I wanted to go eat cupcakes and watch Friends reruns and feel sorry for my cancer-prone self.  So hey, upside.

The end.