Mr. Or Mrs.
I’ve got a mole the size of a pushpin that’s lodged in the crease between my inner thigh and pubic region. The last guy who was fortunate enough to see it asked if it was a tattoo. I remember looking at the mole, then at him, and then back at the mole thinking, “A tattoo? Of what? A ladybug that’s been dipped in cow shit?” I realized he wasn’t down there long enough to really tell what it was so I said, “Nope, just a beauty mark.”
I’ve convinced myself that this brown blob speckled with 3 black dots is cancerous. Even though the last time I was at the dermatologist they said it was fine. When I asked them to remove it just for peace of mind they said it wasn’t necessary, especially since it’s located in an area that has a lot of movement which takes longer to heal. However, I haven’t been able to shake this tattoo comment. I don’t mind tattoos when they’re on other people but when they’re on me, no fucking way! So I called today to make an appointment to get it checked out and hopefully removed.
The receptionist asked if I wanted to see Mr. or Mrs. Fincher. Hmm, boy or girl? I had to think about it for a minute. Traditionally you choose the same sex, especially when you’re getting something done near your delicate regions. But what if the shape of his hands got me excited during the procedure? Even worse, what if he compared the size of his ladybug to the size of my ladybug and chuckled? I’d die! I’d die right there on the table!
“Sir?” the receptionist said.
That’s when I realized I was thinking like a crazy person and asked myself who I thought was more educated and qualified in the health world.
“Mrs. Fincher is fine,” I said.
