Yet another sign you’re getting older is when you see the dermatologist for something other than acne.

Here’s the backstory–in the 70’s and 80’s having a tan was a symbol of good health and an outdoorsy lifestyle. We’d smear baby oil all over our exposed skin and bake for hours. Before you’re too quick to criticize the choices at the time, think of all the people today willing to shoot paralyzing toxins and plastics into their faces for cosmetic purposes. You just know that stuff is going to come back and haunt them. The things society is willing to do in search of beauty.

Anyway, my previous life choices have come home to roost and now I see the dermatologist regularly to keep an eye on some funky-looking spots on my skin. One of which was funky enough to need removal.

Laying face down on the exam table, buck naked, with only a skimpy paper sheet covering my nether region, the nurses went about their business prepping for the procedure. Have you ever been in a doctor’s office and felt more like an object than a human being? As the nurses were gathering their instruments of torture, one nurse said to the other nurse, “Get the needle please. No not that needle, the other one, the big one. No, the BIG one.” Seriously?

“You know I can hear you, right?” I didn’t even say it very loudly, but it startled them both. They had the decency to giggle sheepishly as the doctor walked into the room.

The doctor began her pre-procedure speech. “Lee Ann, we’re going to numb you now and then I’ll cut-”

“Look, I do best with these sorts of things not knowing what’s going on, unless I really need to know what’s going on. OK?” The nurses and the doctor went about their business working on the funky spot.

A pinch here and there, a little pressure and some tugging on the skin of my back and it was done. Or so I thought until I was dumb enough to open my eyes and peek at what was happening around me. Really dumb considering my eyes were level with their hands and the items in their hands, including one small glass jar with a chunk of my back in it.

I will never eat steak tartare again. Ever.