Yesterday I went to see the dermatologist. I have this suspicious mole-ish thing on my temple that I wanted checked out. It’s small, but I’m a fair-skinned blonde who spent decades laughing at the sun. Now in my forties, I take anything remotely mole-ish very seriously.

After some routine questions from a kind, empathetic nurse, I stripped down to my carefully chosen, un-sexy but still very nice (i.e. not from Cosco) bra and undies, and put on the paper bib and waited for Dr. A.

I didn’t wait long. Dr. A. and her crispy white coat were right on time. After an efficient greeting and handshake, she got right to business. She looked at my mole-ish thing, touched it and quickly proclaimed it was not a mole but a wart to which I winced and jerked my head away and said “Ewww, it is not.”

She said she could remove it, talking rapidly about some bruising and a needle (in my temple?). I cut her off, “Ahh, maybe some other time.”

She then proceeded with a full-body mole-check, which went well. She found nothing suspicious (or wart-ish, thank you very much) and concluded I should see her in another year. I smiled, thanked her and waited for her to leave.

But she didn’t. She just stood there looking down at me in my underwear. Then she said, “Sooo how’s your energy level been? (pause) And your appetite?”

I mumbled something like “fine – yeah, it’s all good.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. Okay, then. Have a good day” she said. Then she smiled (condescendingly?) and left.

It took me a minute. Wait – did she just call me fat? I think she did. I think she totally just called me I’m fat. What does my appetite have to do with my (wart-less) skin? Why else would she say that?

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Blogger’s Note: Because you can’t see me, let’s just say, I might need to lose 10 pounds — okay, maybe 13 after this winter, or 20 if I ever moved to Manhattan. As far as I know, that is not enough to prompt a dermatologist to be concerned. See? I told you — that bitch called me fat.