Not a Favorite Sort of Day

In a few minutes I'll be heading out to Akron's west side, where I will meet with ... my dermatologist. This is not my favorite thing to do on a fine August day. In fact, it's among my least favorite things to do.

But after I sailed to the opposite shore of the River Fifty, I found myself in his office a couple of times a year--or more. It's generally painful, though moderately so (say, on the Waterboarding or Medieval Scale). Rarely--rarely, I say--I get nothing but a "See you in a few months."

And then there are those other times involving aerosol cans of frigid spray (I think of cop shows: Freeze!), scalpels, needles and thread.

I had a mild skin cancer back in the mid-2000s (squamous cell), a gift (right between the eyes) from the sun that involved surgery, stitches, a Frankenstein-creature's look for most of the summer. People no longer stare at me (for a variety of reasons), and even I have to look closely to see the scar. The surgeon did a wonderful job--far better than, oh, Victor Frankenstein did.

And I also have had numerous visits involving the aforementioned spray can (today, I fear, will be one of those--at least). Most of the targets--of course!--have been in prominent locations on my face (are there any subtle places on the face?), places that take a week or so to begin looking "normal," and I admire the workers in the coffee shops I patronize: All do a wonderful job of pretending I don't look as if I've just been shot in the face with a b-b gun.

Lately, I've been on a six-month cycle with my dermatologist. But it seems I end up going back to see him before the six months expire. Such is today's visit. I'm due to see him in late September, but I've got some Uninvited Visitors on My Face who need a cold reminder that I don't really want them.

And so ... at 10:45 this morning (or so) ... I'll be in his office, waiting for the frigid whoosh! from the can. And for a week or so I, sans glasses, will squint in the mirror and pretend that, You know--it doesn't look all that noticeable! And Joyce, bless her sweet soul, will say she cannot even tell.

And little children in the grocery store will stare and ask, Mommy, who shot that man in the face with a b-b gun?