That time of the year... again.

The Dentist? sure.

The gynecologist?  no problem.

Tax time?  bring it on.

  It's the blasted dermatologist that gives me nightmares.

I HATE GOING FOR MY ANNUAL SKIN CHECK.  

I HATE it.  Hands down it is the most dreaded part of the year for me. 

I've only pushed one baby out of my body, and it hurt.  It huuuuurrrrrrt, but given the choice of labor and a skin check, I'd choose labor every time.  Every. single. time.  

So today was the day I visited Dermatology and Associates and was examined head to toe.  Each and every blemish talked about, marked, photographed, and documented.  A few lucky ones were even biopsied and shaved.  Lovely.  

It's not the shots or cutting that get to me.  It's the examination.  It's the strip-down-to-my-delicates-and stand-under-the-super-bright-light-while-praying-my-hippie-deodorant-is-working part that kills me.  My nerves are on high alert and that light is hot.  I despise that light.  And on days like today I despise my hippie deodorant, too.

Normally, I wear my hippie deodorant with pride-- knowing full well my pits won't catch aluminum poisoning.  The organic ingredients and recycled packaging make me feel better about myself.  They do.  All that earthiness just makes me smile.  So why do I despise it, you may ask?

Because it doesn't work!   

There.  I said it.  It doesn't work.  (Which is why we call it hippie deodorant.  If you don't get that right a way, it'll hit ya before long.)

I try to keep a stick of armpit poison in my arsenal of toilietries for days like today.  You know, days when every square inch of my body is scrutinized under a 200 degree flood light by a doctor and three- YES THREE- tall, young and skinny nurses.  On days like today, it's worth the risk .  TRUST ME!  

But regular deodorant I could not find.  It was all peace, love and body odor for me.  

Anyway, I could walk you through today's appointment; reliving each and every embarrassing detail.  I could.  I really could.  And you may enjoy my utter humiliation.  After all, if you told me that your male doctor was kneeling behind you- inches from your  derrière-- and asked you to bend at the waist,  I'd probably say, "You have GOT to be kidding me!?"  And that is exactly what I said to him... right before I touched my toes.  The word humiliating isn't even close to being big enough... 

But I survived.  And hopefully this little act of torture will increase my life span.  I've heard that people who go to the dermatologist on a regular basis don't die of skin cancer.  Mostly they die a slow death of humiliation- one appointment at a time.

The kind folks at D&A lovingly took 3 biopsies and will let me know if I have any more cancer.  I've had two cancers whittled out of my forehead already.  You can read about that- complete with open-wound pictures- HERE.  There is a super gross picture so if you're a green face, don't even think about clicking on that link.

In all seriousness, if you haven't been to the dermatologist, GO!  Seriously, go.  It's awful, it really is; but it could just save your life.  And all joking aside... I highly recommend Dermatology and Associates.  They are wonderful.  And thorough.  They are very, very thorough.  Humiliatingly so.  

So shave those legs, find some matching undies, smear on some good, old fashioned, aluminum deodorant and get that skin checked!  

I'd tell you it's really not that bad, but I'd be lying. And we all know where liars go (and trust me, it's NOT to the dermatologist). 


An old friend (who is a smidge younger than me)read this post and made an appointment.  Take a second and read what she discovered at her appointment.  Check it out by clicking HERE.


Out of those 3 biopsies taken, one came back bad.  It will removed mid-April. 


Thanks for reading!!