A trip to your primary care doctor for your annual physical pretty much just means a shower and checking to see if you have a hole in your sock.
The dermatologist is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.
Absolutely nothing is left to the imagination in a full-body skin check.
Now that we’re sometime Florida residents, and since at my age, let’s face it, every other body part is teetering on the brink, I recognize the wisdom of inviting a complete stranger to pore over every inch of my body with a literal magnifying glass.
So yesterday I took more care in my preparations than I used to before a hot date back in the mists of time. At least then I had darkness on my side, not to mention the benefit of the other party being seriously distracted by hormones.
Of course a shower. And with no desire to emulate a female Russian Olympian, a shave of relevant places. And those toenails – the ones I’ve been hiding in socks for the past two months? Better remove the last shreds of September polish, but then that revealed chips and discoloration, and so next a quick pedicure. Lotion up the winter dry skin, dig out presentable underwear, put together a quick on/off ensemble and off I went.
The good news was that even though my daughter asks if I’ve seen the doctor whenever she gets a look at my polka-dotted back, I’m okay. Though in my next life, it'd be nice to come back with something other than the pale, freckled skin of my English/Scottish ancestors.