Apologies for the lack of update last Friday. After the dermatologist informed me that the mole/birthmark/ugly-thing I’ve had on my face since I was 8 is probably pre-cancerous* and needs to be removed, I got distracted.
*For those who don’t know, just about anything on your skin that isn’t a freckle is classified as “pre-cancerous”. I don’t have cancer. Don’t freak out.
They biopsied a piece of it, a procedure that left a hole barely requiring a single stitch. I was expecting them to cover this with one of those adorable little circle band-aids no one ever uses. Instead, for reasons I’m still not clear on, they covered this minuscule, so-tiny-it-took-me-two-days-to-find-it-in-the-mirror stitch with a humongous bandage. The sort you use after you fall off your bike and leave the skin that was previously covering your kneecap all over the road. The kind of bandage that suggests your insurance premiums are going up next year.
On my face.
And then I went to work that way.
Of course, a bandage like that is going to raise questions. But I didn’t want to make this awkward for my co-workers. So rather than wait for them to ask, I simply waved good morning and volunteered an explanation:
“Game of Truth or Dare.”
“Learning to juggle chainsaws.”
“Nail-guns are tricky.”
“Jumped through a plate glass window saving orphans from a burning church.”
What? I never said they were the right explanations.
Incidentally, I was told removing the birthmark-thingy will leave a scar. I said that was fine as long as they made it a badass one. Like, it should go through my eye.
Turns out some Dermatologists have no sense of humor.