Getting the once-over

 

( <   Today's tropical beginning.)

Yesterday was the annual skin check. At first glance, with my bumps, age spots, red spots, deeply brown spots, and freckles, I look like a dermatologist’s final exam. In reality, all was well. All the thrills of having the UK in my heritage.

I’m happy to say my dermatologist is a woman, so I was a tad nonplussed when a cadaverous young man who looked like he has a night gig as a band roadie called my name. As he walked me to the room I had time to absorb the Tiny Tim hair, the wrinkled scrubs that stopped four inches above his ankles, and his creative choice of socks.

In the room he checked through my history and then handed me a gown. Would he be there assisting as large swaths of my body were revealed?

 When he wished me happy holidays on his way out I breathed a sigh of relief.