Thursday, August 14, 2008

I'm not too worried about it, really. I wouldn't worry about it. Don't worry about it. I'm not worried at all.

I have a situation.

An awkward, mildly uncomfortable pickle, inevitably involving my ass and a qualified professional.

Let me break it down for you.

My good friend and mentor, Tina the Waxer, informed me approximately 2.4 years ago of a mole she discovered while waxing my backdoor area. (This is included in the price of a Brazilian. This is NOT something I ask for special.) She told me I should get it checked out, but not surprisingly, I've just lived with it since then. I've also forced a boyfriend to look at it, and he didn't seem concerned. So neither was I.

This looks like George W. Disturbing.

But now, here I am, waiting to go to a derma appointment at which I should probably bring up said skin tag. And I don't effing want to. I mostly feel awkward being tricky, and getting in that sterile room and going, 'Yeah, I just wanted to get a general skin check. Oh and also, I have something suspicious IN THE CRACK OF MY ASS.'

Now I'm sitting here, sweating at my desk, slaving over the embarassing moment that is sure to lie ahead when I (if I decide to) drop trou and bend over. I'm more than inclined to dial the receptionist on my way over there, and make sure that this MALE doctor is old and unattractive. If not, I might be more than willing to acquire an illness as a result of this unsightly mark, rather than show it to another human being.

**I'd also like to note that upon consulting my mother regarding this difficult matter, she instructed me not to 'show him the first time you meet him. Wait till you know him a little better, and then do it.' I in turn reminded her that this is not a man I'm trying to get into a relationship with, but rather a professional skin doctor.

I did it. After a full body scan, during which the little bugger stayed hidden, I went balls out: 'Well...there's a really embarassing one I could show you. If you want.'

Aaaaand...he LOPPED IT OFF. That's right folks. Mole-Be-Gone. And it is.

I was instructed to lie on my side, ala Rose in Titanic, and spread my own butt cheeks apart. (In reviewing this again, I suppose I'm grateful I was asked to spread them myself, rather than someone doing it for me.) The next part was fun - getting a SHOT in the ASS. As pleasant as this may sound to the laymen, turns out it's surprisingly painful and unappealing. I, most likely, will not ask to have it done again in the future.

My experience was decidedly less sexy than this one.

Finally, this unwanted piece of body was scraped from said ass, and I'm now mole free. There's an actual bandage in the crease of my buttocks, which is quite possibly what I find to be the the most amusing part of this entire episode.

Thank God the doctor was old. Thank God he was old, named Millard, and all business.

Because now I have a sore ass, without the foul play.

It's hardly worth it.

***How I've ever had a boyfriend is beyond me.