Three things you should know about me before reading this post:
- When I was a kid, my friends used to call me Casper because I was so white I “glowed in the dark.”
- B and I kept our fingers crossed that our offspring wouldn’t be see-through. (Sadly, I’m not joking.)
- I don’t tan. I barely freckle. My options for skin-tone are “Whitey McPaleFace” or “Lobster with a side of blisters.”
All that is to say, I have fair skin.
A friend recently suggested that I see a dermatologist for a full body scan. This basically means that a doctor looks at every inch of your bare skin, scalp to toes, and checks for anything irregular. With my ‘delicate Irish skin’ and a family history of skin cancer, I decided it was a good idea.
So when I checked in to my friendly neighborhood dermatologist’s office for my appointment I was a little nervous, I’m not gonna lie. I wasn’t so much afraid of an unruly mole or an irregular freckle; it was more about having to show my heiney to a doctor.
Just keepin’ it real, folks.
The doctor tries to make things more comfortable. She starts her examination with my hands and arms, making idle chit chat.
She comments that I have a bunch of ink on my fingers and I explain that a pen exploded in my pocket last night and I can’t scrub out the ink. It’s a pleasant, light conversation….the only kind you want to have knowing that your derriere is about to hit the light of day.
Then I turn over.
And even though I’m covered in a paper sheet, I can feel the anxiety creeping up. The moment of dread arrives; the doctor tells me she’s going to “just pull the sheet down a bit.”
I brace. I feel the cold air on my tush.
And the next thing I hear the doctor
utter yell, I will never forget:
“Holy SHIT what is THAT??”
My first thought was that she had just uncovered some sort of alien growing out of my backside that I had somehow failed to notice. It was all I could do to not JUMP off the table and hide my heiney-monster in shame.
But I didn’t. Instead I whispered meekly, “What’s going on back there?!?!”
And then the doctor started laughing. And no, I’m not kidding –she was laughing out loud. Guffawing, really.
At this point I was smack dab in the middle of my worst nightmare, so I decided to wrap my booty back up in the 1/8″ thick paper sheath and retain whatever withering shred of dignity I had left.
I sat up.
Seeing my face, the doctor started apologizing profusely. She explained that she saw something on my backside that she hadn’t ever seen before.
Apparently there was a very large, irregular, misshapen dark blue blotch on my bum. She was shocked at first, until she realized that the ink I referenced from a conversation earlier must have exploded in my BACK POCKET, leaving a lark ink stain on my tush.
So do I have skin cancer? No.
An other-worldly life-form growing out of my tuckus? Thankfully not.
What I did have was a Rorschach-like ink stain on my butt that I never saw but scared the crap out of my dermatologist.
We She had a good laugh about it and I left the office as quickly as possible. To this day, I swear I am called something horrible and hilarious in that office. I mean, wouldn’t YOU come up with some nickname for me?
I share this with you not only because I love embarrassing myself publicly, on the internet, to friends and strangers alike – but also because Wednesday is my birthday.
In lieu of gifts (except cash. I’ll always except cash.), what I really want for my birthday is for you, dear readers, to share with me one of your embarrassing moments.
There’s something about making an ass of yourself that leaves me feeling all happy and warm inside.
So be brave! Be bold! And leave a comment!
Or, if you want to be
a wimp anonymous, email me your story to email@example.com. I hope to pick one or two to share in a future post (with permission, of course).
Now get commenting! My birthday happiness depends on it.