My off-the-deep-end primary doctor sent me (by SENT, I mean he actually scheduled a consultation) with Dermatology, to have my suspicious (ooooooo ahh…) moles checked out.
To me, they look like perfectly well behaved law abiding skin specks.
What do I know?
Dermatologist- Your specks look like perfectly well behaved law abiding skin citizens. [I knew that] but you have acne *here and *here and *here… [No, shit. It’s been there for 30 +years… or forever. I don’t even see it anymore]
She plays the ‘connect the dot’ game on my face… and I didn’t even ask to play.
Because, I’m 46, that’s why.
“Ain’t nobody got time for acne at 46.”
This is precisely why Cover Girl invented face paint for warrior women.
I’m half way to DEAD for fucks sake.
Just take me out back and shoot me.
I was handed a bag of complimentary acne cream samples, which I accepted graciously and will definitely use.
Which is as close as I’ve ever gotten to a real spa experience.
I’m a spa virgin. (A pig-headed do-it-yourselfer)
So, I’m feeling pretty freaking pampered right now.
Plus, I’m pretty sure I got extra credit for being a shade whiter than Casper the Ghost.
(which is synonymous with pale-New York-Honkey-in-March skin color)
And, just as scary.