The dreaded paper gown...

So, I am mole-ly...you know...I have moles. Lots of moles. Not the wart-y, hang off your skin kind...ewwww...more like the freckl-y, flat kind but still, I have a ton! One of my old boyfriends used to call me his chocolate chip girlfriend. So, once every so often a year I head to the dermatologist to have them all scoped out. It's an in and out thing. But it is H.U.M.I.L.I.A.T.I.N.G! The humiliation has nothing to do with the moles, I am comfortable with my little brown friends, they keep my occupied when I am bored...you know, connect the dots... The humiliation begins with the dreaded paper gown, my mismatched bra and panties (I don't actually OWN a set that matches at the moment) and my goose-pimply skin... because it is apparently a dermatological requirement that the exam rooms be refrigerated. And the humiliation doesn't stop there...oh, no...it gets better... there's a gentle tap at the door warning me to hide my imperfections behind every inch of the blue napkin they call a gown. According to Webster's Dictionary, a "gown" is a loose flowing outer garment... I check, nope not loose and as tightly as I am grasping it's edges it CERTAINLY ain't flowin'! My voice cracks as I chant softly, feeeeel skinny, feeeeel skinny say, "come in." And yesterday, that's when I lost all hope for this being a "comfortable" visit. In walks a stick figure with lungs...I couldn't SEE her lungs, they were apparently FLAT, but it is the only answer to how the top 1/2 of something that skinny could be buoyant enough to stand upright. THIS is the woman that will check my moles? Did I order Dr. Waif? Am I accidentally on the "doesn't compare herself to others" list? Get me off that freaking list!! She introduces herself with a COLD handshake...nice. Cold hands. This is going to be a blast. Then...the dreaded unveiling and violation of my chub. There is nothing...let me spell it for you... N-O-T-H-I-N-G... more disturbing than having to be TOUCHED by someone you wish you LOOKED like...seriously...she had to move parts of me out of the way to get to parts that may have had moles in question. Now, I am not obese by any means but come on...could I lay in a dark room on a table with a super-sonic laser that scopes for irregular edges and darker colors? I'd pay extra. I'd pay HER! Puh-lease!!!!! And as if that wasn't enough humiliation for one day, she asks me to stand. I scoot to the edge of the table holding the top of my napkin gown on my front with my right hand while whisking my left hand around so quickly to cover my bum that I kinda smacked Dr. Waif around a little...accident? Hmmmm, that's a psychological question...maybe I am at the wrong office! She, of course, needs to remove a mole at the small of my back that will be sent away for testing. I should be a little unnerved about the possibility of atypical cells, right? Well, I would be if I wasn't panicking about how I was going to get back up ON the table ON my stomach so she can stick me with Novocaine and dig this spot out of my back all while staying covered by this little blue napkin that I am so annoyed with. Three r-r-r-rips later, I gave up. HERE I AM!!!! Black undies, pink bra and all my moles and rolls looking at you Dr. Waif! Whadda think of that?! Now, DIG Sistah! I need a Starbucks! Now, in hindsight...this skinny minnie could have potentially saved my life by spotting an irregular mole I couldn't have seen with 3 mirrors and a magnifying glass no matter HOW skinny I was. It was in the dead center of my lower back, right above my...ummmm...rhymes with back. So, thank you Dr. Waif, and yes, I will be making an appointment for next year...here, have some cookies...or 10! **If you have any moles or age spots that change in color, size or shape call your local dermatologist, it could be the best call you ever make...now, the visit...not the best...but QUITE worth it!