Screw the muu-muu.

I'm just home from the dermatologist. I had to go and have some stitches removed. A mole had gone rogue, had skittered and grown across the back of my thigh. This all happened without my knowledge until one day Marc was brushing his teeth and - as I dried off from my shower - pointed at my rear. His eyes widened and through his froth-filled mouth he chocked, "What the hell is that THING on the back of your leg?"

"WHAT!? Is it moving?" I cried, and after some gymnastic-like twisting, I saw what he was talking about in the mirror. There was the mole - large and dark with a pissed off looking halo of red around it - sitting under my right butt cheek. We decided that calling the doctor was the prudent choice, even though Marc offered to lance it.

I mean, let's face it, I'm super pale. I bathe in sunblock and am the chick in the huge hat with the muu-muu sitting under an umbrella at the beach. Somehow, the family stores of melanin had temporarily run out while I was in utero. My younger brother came along just as a new order had arrived as I'm the only one in the family that is this bone white. I glow. So I'm pretty on top of doing my own skin checks along with getting my dermatologist to eyeball me annually. The first time I went in she screeched and hollered, "HIT THE LIGHTS!" as she was afraid anything coming out of a bulb might burn me. Or cause me to disappear. Then she gave me a pamphlet on SPF clothing. None of which is cute, by the way.

I went to my doctor, a woman who is most likely in her 50's but has had enough procedures and what-not to seem 30. (I say this is an admiring way as when I start getting sick of my crows feet I'm just going to point at her and said, "I'll have what you've been having.") I showed her my mole and she agreed that it needed to be taken off. Immediately. Since she doesn't seem to do that kind of dirty work, she sent me to her partner, a verbose young man who looks perpetually surprised, a trait amplified by the magnifying goggles he wore to inspect my mole. After much pushing and pulling of the area, he hacked off what felt like an acre of skin and then sewed me up with some nylon rope. He tied me off, slapped a band aid on it and said, "It's abnormal, but let's not borrow trouble."

I mostly forgot about it. Except when I had to sit. Or put on underwear. Or pants. Or go to the bathroom. Which is often. Marc suggested that I carry around and employ a hemorrhoid pillow. He might still be blacked out from the blow he took to the head after that one. I should really check on him.

So today I returned to get the stitches taken out and hear the pathology results. Which were vague. Had the lab tech been there, I have a feeling he would have given his diagnosis with a lot of hemming and hawing, "Weeeellllll...it's not the WORST thing we've seen...but it's not the best. Hmmm. It's ABNORMAL, but not within the range where we suggest you PANIC. It's odd. I don't really know...read any good books lately?" The startled looking dermatologist took a more pointed approach. "I need larger margins." I could work with that.

He decided to wait to hack of more skin real estate being that I'm almost five months pregnant. So come December, we'll deal with it. After this discussion he then asked if I wanted him to do a thorough skin check since I hadn't during our initial visit. I told him no, that sitting there pants'less in his office while he blinked awkwardly at me through his magnifying goggles was enough humiliation for one day. We could do that in December when I came in for further maiming.

I plan on keeping the rest of my moles in line. I'm taking a prison lock down approach here. If everyone stays where they ought, my skin gets one hour of outside time a month. The rest of the time the moles are remaining in solitary under a kevlar suit which in turn will be covered by a full body ski bib. Screw the muu-muu. I'm not messing around.