The sad, sad skin on my chinny-chin-chin has been a dermatological conundrum since having my babies. I'd like to blame this "little dude," for part of that, but I can't...he's too "kiss-that-face-off" adorable.
Call it hormones. Call it adult acne. Call it a pain in the face! Whatever it is, it's no barrel of monkeys! I am a very mature (I can *hear* you giggling), thirty-something, grownup woman with the chin of a pubescent junior high kid who cannot be late for Math class!
So, I scrub my face with PanOxyl. I use topical benzoyl peroxide and salicylic acid. I eat cookies. (Not relevant.) I visit the dermatologist's office a couple of times a year, and primarily see the physician's assistant, Mike. He's a nice guy, usually helpful, very smart, with dermis as smooth as glass. (Grrrr.)
Today I found myself in a small, sterile-white exam room, deliberating over whether or not I should browse, "Parent & Child," or an outdated "Time," while I waited for Mike. The reading material was uninteresting to me, and I refused to study (or even glance at) the graphic, disturbing posters on the wall...lest I toss my breakfast. Those posters depicted types of skin cancer in their various stages of growth. One long and lasting linger by my peepers, and I knew acute paranoia would set in--thus resulting in a frantic, compulsive check of my body for "cancerous" moles. Instead, I reflected on the last time I had been in that exam room...
"Aleisha, let me grab your chart and quickly review my notes. It will help me get caught up on what we've been doing for treatment. Just give me a minute to read over this," says Mike, as he leafs through several sheets of paper in a brown file.
"Sure, no problem," I reply. I sit quietly and listen as he proceeds to skim-read my chart aloud.
"Patient saw significant results after round of oral antibiotics...using topical Duac with success...main concern was mild breakouts along hairline and forehead...but should be noted that patient uses a substantial amount of..."
Mike pauses. He clears his throat. I see his eyes quickly dart to where I am sitting. I smile, fold my arms, and wait for him to continue. I'm watching him, daring him to say it.
"I beg your pardon," he says, all professional and "Mr. Manners" and such.
"No, no. It's fine," I respond, forcing myself to hide a smirk. I wait for him to read the comment that gave him pause. I have a hunch I already know where this is going. He proceeds:
"Should be noted that patient uses a substantial amount of...HAIR PRODUCT."
AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! HA HA HA HA HA!!
A rapid knock-knock-knock snapped me out of my reverie. Mike--donning a crisp, sparkling lab coat--strode into the room; my brown file tucked under his arm. I bit my lip to keep from giggling as he greeted me, sat down, and pulled out his glasses. I knew what was coming next: he was going to "review." I didn't need to listen, yet. I already knew what was in there.
I gave in and looked at those blasted posters instead.