Not just about the cold.
No, I am a pussy about so many things that it's pathetic.
I have a 9:40 appointment this morning at the dermatologist. Just an annual scan. You know- where the doctor goes over your entire body from your scalp to your toes looking for signs of skin cancer. And it's a miracle I haven't had any thus far- I've spent my life in the Florida sun and when I was a kid, there was nothing but Copper Tone, Sea'n' Ski and zinc oxide which I now hear is the standard of choice for preventing skin cancer. Who knew?
Anyway, I'm showered to within an inch of my life and even shaved my legs and I'm ready to go, panic attack hovering around the door asking, "Is it time yet? Can I unleash the dogs yet? Ready to pass out? Come on! It'll be fun!"
All I want to do is hang out here in Lloyd in my new soft Target pants and my new soft Target slippers which are "fur" lined. I really, really do not want that doctor to see me in all my glowing, blobby nakedness. No. I do not. He chants all the signs of skin cancer: borders, colors, growth rate, size, etc., etc. as he looks at me.
One year he talked me into trying an evil, evil drug called Effudex (or something like that) which peeled every bit of skin from my face and left me bleeding on my pillow before I ended that little experiment. Children ran from the sight of me. Adults politely turned their eyes away from my face. And the skin on my face has never been the same since. Damn him.
Another year he tried to talk me into Retin A.
Look. I am an aging woman. The sun and time and gravity have had their way with me. This is why I wear clothing. My face is my face.
Ah well. My panic level tells me it's time to go. Let's get this over with for the year. It's really not a big deal. Not like, oh, a colonoscopy, which I did get a notice about a few weeks ago. The Gods of The Colon have determined that it's time for me to undergo that procedure AGAIN.
Well. Off I go, panic barely in check. I have to see a doctor. Actually, he has to see me. Every square inch.