I’ve been on a roll with my own yearly doctor visits. It’s that time of year. Y’all know I’m a stickler for those and I hope you are, too. In the last three weeks, I’ve been to my general doctor, the gynecologist, and today was the dermatologist. The dermatologist I see is in another town where my dear, oldest friend, Michelle, lives. Her birthday was a couple of weeks ago, so I met her and her sweet daughter for lunch at the restaurant of her choice. She was craving Mexican food and I’m always craving it, so it worked for me. 

The waitress brought the chips, salsa, and queso dip, which is 90% of the reason I go to Mexican restaurants and Michelle and I dove right in. She and I were on one side of the booth and her daughter, Sally, on the other. About 10 chips into our basket, I asked Sally if she was going to have any, but I already knew the answer. She’s a very healthy eater and saves her splurges for the weekends, so she sat and watched her mother and me kill a whole basket of chips. I think I could see her mouth slightly agape in amazement like someone who was watching a couple of lionesses devour a gazelle on Animal Planet. I can only imagine what she was thinking. There Sally sat- about the size of my right leg with a metabolism I could hear buzzing from across the table- the one who should’ve been siphoning the queso- not me. I think, deep down, we might have impressed her with our pace and endurance which would rival competitive eating levels. Impressed. Repulsed. It’s hard to say. 

From there, I had to get on to my dermatology appointment. On the way, I thought tanking up on chips and dips may not have been the best choice for someone who was about to have to disrobe and be inspected like a side of beef at the USDA. I got there and exchanged all my clothes for a paper gown which was a bad trade. I’m not really sure it was thick enough to qualify as paper. I’d call it more of a vellum gown. About the time I got it situated in the most effective manner, the doctor and her little nurse came in the door. Her nurse was a young, cute thing. She couldn’t have weighed more than 100 pounds. I remember when I was young and cute and weighed 100 pounds. Those were good times. The doctor starts with my scalp and looks me over with a fine tooth comb. Practically the entire 80’s decade was devoted to burning my skin for the purpose of achieving eventual tan, so there’s a lot to be inspected and it takes a while. The drill is the young, cute little nurse is standing there with my chart and making notations of every mole, sunspot, freckle, or marking that the doctor calls out along with its location on my body. It’s really a fun time for everyone involved. There I was, having just downed a basket of chips, two bowls of dip, a chimichanga, and two glasses of tea, and this tiny, little nurse, who’s not as old as the “seborrheic keratosis on my upper left scapula,” is getting an eye full with my paper gown being flipped every which way. The highlight for everyone is always when she asks me to flip over. There are 99 ways to turn over on a 4 foot table while wearing a vellum gown that’s open in the front, but I am here to tell you that none of them are pretty. 

So, if I’ve done nothing else good with this day, I have given two young ladies a honest look into the future. These unfortunate transformations that come with the passage of time shouldn’t take anyone by complete surprise. If we’re exposed to them in small doses while we’re young, they won’t be so horrifying when they eventually come to pass. I like to think I’ve made a difference in some lives today.  
And this….
And this….We were doing this…..