The Young Ones

No, I didn't get shot in the head with a bb gun. On Tuesday I went to see a dermatologist because I was getting worried about my twenty seven years in Florida and my youth when I would tan dark enough to be banned from South Africa. Skin cancer has shown up in my family before. I vividly remember my grandfather being dragged unwillingly to the doctor because of a big brown sore on his nose. It was not benign, so the doctor cut it out right then and there in his office. My grandfather's nose had a big flat spot on it for the rest of his life. My biggest fear is my back, mostly because I cannot see what the hell is going on there. And Mark is no help. I asked him to look and see if anything weird was going on back there and he ran away screaming like a little baby. He's very squeamish. So I went to see the doctor. It appears that I have reached the age of old fart in the complete sense. I sat there in the doctor's examination room waiting for the doctor while the young, very young nurse asked me questions and took photos of my body. Then the doctor walked in. His name was not Doctor Doogie Howser, but he appeared to be of the same age. Now don't get me wrong, he and the nurse were very professional, but it was like I was being examined by two teenagers, maybe pre-teenagers. (Could I get into trouble for being nearly naked in a room with these kids?) To cement my membership in the old fart club, I made a series of inappropriate jokes that the kids didn't seem to understand. Then, after the doctor cut the mole off of my forehead, I suggested they paint a bullet hole on the Band-Aid that the doctor applied to the wound. Again, I could see confusion and maybe pity in the eyes of the kid doctor and his young nurse.

So in all, I had two suspicious moles cut out of my body. The doctor told me it would take two weeks to find out if they were cancerous. Then he put his ear buds in, jumped on his skateboard, and went on his way.