Yesterday was FringeMan’s forty-second birthday, poor fellow.
Because he was in a plumbing battle this week and the pipes almost won, I think he’s feeling every day his age. He makes an excellent plumber, however, he says that he’s not ready for another career change. He’s going to stick to saving houses from electrical fires and souls from hell’s fires.
I embarrassed him for his 40th and threw him a little surprise party, complete with those dorky glasses. Who could resist? By the time my 40th rolls around, I’m counting on the fact that he’ll have memory loss.
Happy Birthday my love. You’ll always be young and spry in my eyes.
Let’s hope my eyes don’t age as quickly as my skin!
I went to the dermatologist yesterday. It was a quick trip to check on two spots that have formed over the last year. Now you may be wondering how I would notice two new spots when I look like I’m holding the spots for all 101 Dalmatians; however, I know my freckles, moles, and other assorted brown blotches.
I have them counted, 5,823.
Of course I don’t count them. That would be like counting stretch marks and I might be institutionalized for that.
Anyway, I have a mark on my face that is larger than my freckles and is accompanied by a rough patch of skin. I can feel it even if I can’t see it. The other mark is on my arm. It’s red and brown and about the size of an eraser head. I’ve been sporting it for about a year. Now I never thought twice about my spots until I was pregnant with FringeKid. I had a mole on my belly that grew and distorted throughout my pregnancy. To me it made perfect sense and if you’d seen the size of my belly, you’d agree. My OBGYN was not impressed with the transformation of my belly or mole. She thought both were too big.
She made me have it removed. I say made, but threats and minor acts of violence are all it took. Turns out it did have a few less than stellar cells, so now I’m paranoid over my spots. Period. It doesn’t help that, while snuggling next to me on the couch, FringeBoy pointed out the Milky Way on my arm. My spots are not for constellation gazing.
This story is turning into a melodrama and all I want to say is that after gazing into my face with a little light gadget, the Doctor looks at me and names my spot. A name I cannot repeat. Obviously my face belied my ignorance because he then said with a smirk, it’s a wisdom spot.
“An AGE spot!” I vehemently yelled aghast. Each word stung my lips as it passed.
With defensiveness and mock shock, he assured me that in my case it not age spot, but a sun spot. He was laughing at me because I think he was actually younger than me. A fact that disturbs me as much as spending a $50 copay to find out I’m getting old. My gray hair does that for free!
The other spot had another name and was most definitely not an age or sun spot, but benign just the same. Thank God. I couldn’t handle any more bad news.
FringeMan may be the one who is 42, but I’m the one that’s over the hill.