At this point in my life, I have few illusions about my appearance. I look how I look and I’m pretty much okay with it, save for one particular feature: skin tags.
I have skin tags. On my neck. And I dislike them very, very much.
The first one popped up when I went to college – I gained the freshman fifteen and some extra skin. Another appeared after I got married. When I got pregnant with Julia, all hell broke loose. And now?
It looks like I have about fifteen tiny brains growing out of my neck. If only they served to make me smarter.
I visited the doctor prior to getting pregnant with Lucy about having them removed. She took a look and said, in layman’s terms, “Dude, those are so freakishly big and plentiful that you need to see a specialist.”
So I did.
The specialist told me, in layman’s terms, “I really don’t want to remove these from you because, first of all, you’re kind of fat and as long as you’re fat, you’re probably going to have these skin tags. Secondly, I think you just want them removed for vanity’s sake, not due to pain and discomfort, and your insurance won’t pay for that. So, go home Fatty McWartyWart and thank the good Lord there isn’t hair growing out of them, because that would probably mean you’re a witch.”
So I went home. And I cried, because that’s what I do sometimes, and I contemplated buying an assortment of scarves to cover up my malformations. I could pull off a Bohemian kind of fashion vibe, right? Sadly, no. Not really. Instead, I’ve just been living with them. And despising them.
Last night, Julia was hanging from my neck (because she’s not really happy right now unless she’s physically attached to me in some way) and she ripped one off. RIPPED. With blood. And pain. More pain than I expected, yet less than being called “fat” or “vain” or “a witch” or even being stared at like I’m The Elephant Man. Now, if I can only get her to do that fifteen more times…