Taking the Cuts

I have just returned from having two moles biopsied.  It isn’t my favorite thing to do, but given that I love being in the sun and I don’t want to die of cancer, I’ll take the cuts.  Of course, I scheduled my appointment after returning from a week at the beach.  As I try to adjust the paper towel covering me, the male nurse notices my bathing suit marks and says, “Nice tan.”  He doesn’t have any tone to his voice, but the effect is the same.  I know it is ridiculous to be sitting in a room waiting to have pre-cancerous moles removed with a savage tan, but it seems par for the course for me.  A few years ago, I would have rushed to provide a whole slew of excuses.  Now, I just shrug it off and save my breath.  He doesn’t care.  He isn’t the one sitting on the table.  I’m the idiot here, not him.  The doctor asks me if I reapply sunscreen every two hours.  Again, I could lie, but I don’t.  She tells me my honesty is refreshing.  Her approval of my honesty is the highlight of my visit.  Before I know what is happening, she shoves a needle in my neck like I am James Bond and she is the evil doctor charged with taking me down.  While I am still trying to figure out if she killed me, she takes to my skin with a doll size biscuit cutter.  She takes off two moles-one on my neck and one on my chest.  As she is stitching up the big hole in my chest, she says to the male nurse, “see how much easier it is to close it up when there is a flat surface.”   Ouch.  That stings. I have never been chesty, but really, "flat surface?" Was that really necessary?  It is a sad day in a woman’s life when her neck officially has more curves than her chest.