megdanielle

I’m leaning as far over my bathroom counter as possible, just inches from the bathroom mirror, to examine a spot on my face.

What is that thing?

The spot, which I originally deemed acne, is persistent…a little too persistent. As I squint at the offending blemish, it occurs to me that this has been going on for several months now. Sadly, the mark doesn’t seem to be going anywhere on its own.

Some time later, I sit in exam room 3 at the dermatologist, cringing at the volume of my self-deprecating laugh when the nurse asks me when I first noticed the changes to my skin.

“Uh, it’s probably been several months now.” I say to nearly every question, except for the one where I admit it’s been well over a year.

In minutes, the PA comes and goes. She shines her light, magnifies my imperfections, and proclaims with each new examination, “There’s nothing to be done. These things happen as we get older.”

Pardon?

I mention the appointment to one of my friends while mindlessly flipping through burial plot listings. He laughs in solidarity.

“Oh yeah,” he says, “it’s all downhill after you hit 35. I went in after jamming my finger folding a box. 6 months later it still hurt, so I went to the doctor. He tells me that at my age, that’s to be expected. ‘It might never get better,’ he tells me.”

Later that day, I begin Swedish Death Cleaning.