I went to the doctor today for a mole-check. I used to sunbathe like a madman back when I was young, stupid, and living in Florida. I’ve had more body-spanning sunburns than most people have had haircuts. As I grow older, I’m noticing more moles, and I’m acutely aware that I’m in the high-risk group for skin cancer.
These aren’t massive, hairy, old-man moles, mind you. These are just ordinary moles. But they’re NEW, and I figure it can’t hurt to check ’em out. Also, I had a couple of mole-ish lumps they call “skin tags” I figured we’d have looked at as well.
All is well. The doctor had a look at things, and said that none of my many discolored speckles were anything to be worried about, but that it WAS a good idea for me to come in from time to time, especially if something new cropped up. He checked out the skin tags, and said they were just a cosmetic matter. Slave to vanity that I am, I said I’d like to have them removed anyway, so he rolled in his mole-zapping machine.
I really, really, REALLY wish these things had been on my belly, or my knee, or someplace OTHER than my back so that I could have seen what was going on. See, after anesthetizing the spot (THAT hurt) he stuck a needle in and electrified it so that sparks jumped through the skin tag burning it up. When he started on the second of them I realized I could smell burning hair. At least, it smelled like burning hair, and I was stupidly surprised to discover that burning skin smells the same way. I expected burnt me to smell somehow.. ‘wetter.’ More like a barbecue, and less like unsuccessfully stepping away after lighting the grill.
Anyway, that was today’s adventure. I got bandaids!