Skin me

In this day and age of waning ozone, haven't we all looked a little harder at our moles? That's right, this post is about skin care. I live in Florida where the warnings get shot across the news programs every six months like clockwork. "WE LIVE IN FLORIDA. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE FROM SKIN CANCER. WEAR SPF 2,346 SUNBLOCK AND YOU MIGHT ADD TWO MONTHS TO YOUR LIFE." Mind you, I'm not making light of this serious subject. As usual, I'm going to make light of my personal reaction to it. These news broadcasts usually contain diagrams and charts and stuff like this: Remember Your ABCDEFGH's when examining your skin. A is for Amorphous. Fold your mole in half and if it isn't 100 percent symetrical, you should definitely keep reading. B is for Beauty Mark. If your mole is within 3 centimeters of your lips, it's a beauty mark and not a mole. Advance to Go and collect an extra $1,000 for your modeling contract. C is for Childproof. If you have a mole sticking out a little bit on the back of your neck and your Girlie can't keep her fat fingers off of it, you should have it removed since you don't believe in spanking. D is for diaphanous. If your mole is ethereal enough, you can call it the Virgin Mary and sell pictures of it on ebay. Okay, hold it right there. I'm getting way off point. The thing is, no matter how many times I listen to the descriptions and look at the pictures, I can't look at my own freckly, moley body without seeing skin cancer EVERYWHERE. Both my parents have had one type or another. So this week I went to a dermatologist and she told me that I have boring, cancer-free skin. I am so relieved. So is my wallet. But it's worth every dime. Now I can pay her once a year and focus on the other cancers my OCD brain likes to imagine I'm at risk for. And the point of this post? Wear your sunscreen; put it on your kids and your dog; and check your moles. If you find one shaped like the Baby Jesus, it'll more than pay for your dermatologist visits.