A few weeks back, I got up, looked in the mirror, and discovered a little spot on the bridge of my nose, right between my eyes. It had not been there the night before.
Because of its sudden appearance, and my childhood spent in the sun browning my pale, pale skin, I thought I best take a little trip to the old dermatologist.
He's been my doctor since I was in my early thirties. I like him a lot. He's bald and has pale blue eyes. He wears his glasses perched on the end of his large beak and he calls me darlin'.
He always looks me over pretty good every time I'm there, I guess no point in wasting a trip to look at one little spot.
Anyway, he mumbled something about the spot being just a normal part of aging. I asked, "So, is this an old age spot?"
"We don't call them that anymore."
"But, is that what it is?"
He grinned. Yes. That's what it was.
He put some kind of light on my face that shows aging of the skin and got pretty excited. He said he couldn't believe my skin and asked the nurse to agree how wondrous it was, that here I am fifty-nine years old and my facial skin appears to be about forty-two years old.
His little nurse was maybe twenty-five and she agreed that was really something, but I could tell by the look on her face she wasn't sure what all the fuss was about.
But I can tell you, I was puffed up! I couldn't wait to get to the waiting room and share this great news with old geezer Husband.
Husband bragged on me, too, of course.
But then it hit me. I was thrilled, I was boastful, that my skin looked forty-two years old.
That would have been a shame, a nightmare, an embarrassment for me, even when I was forty-two years old!
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The most dreaded sentence of all has been placed upon my head:
I look good for my age.
Just shoot me now.
You can use that little brown spot right between my eyes for the target.
But you better hurry. There may be so many of them by tomorrow, you won't know where to aim.
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