Monkey Business

In St. Paul’s day, there was a statue to an unknown god that people must have worshiped in case there was one they overlooked.  I can resonate to that, only I’m thinking of worry, not worship.  The second time I went to the dermatologist, he told me ahead of time that he would do a full body scan the next time.  I thought I knew what was coming, so I didn’t worry about it.  I should have set aside some serious time to worry.  I assumed (and we all know one should not assume) that I’d take off ALL my clothes, every last stitch, and put on a very inadequate paper gown. 

The day came that I hadn’t worried about.  The nurse guided me to an examination room, handed me the aforementioned skimpy covering and said something that caused a deer in the headlights expression to cross my face.

She said, “Take everything off EXCEPT your underwear.”

Oh!  My goodness!  What do I do now?  Am I wearing holey underwear?  Please tell me I didn’t pick out the Halloween pair this morning.  Walmart tricked me with that one.  In a package of three they covered the orange pair with one each of green and beige.  I wear the orange ones only when all the others are in the wash, and there is no other choice.  Come to think of it, the green and beige ones are long gone, washed and worn out ages ago.  Getting dressed in the dark, there is no telling what I might have carelessly slapped on my body.  Am I wearing one that has runs in it and looks like a reject from the hosiery drawer?  Go on, nurse.  Let’s get this over with.  Oh.  Whew!  No holes, no strings, no runs.  I’ve been saved from total embarrassment. 

That happened a year or two ago, but you can tell the memory is as fresh as a spring breeze.  The appointment I kept Thursday was made about eight months ago.  They said at the time that they’d do another body scan, so I carefully remembered that and worried accordingly.  What was there to worry about this time?  I’ll tell you.  Avoiding holes and runs was a given.  Making the choice from the best underwear in the drawer was nerve wracking.  What if you chose something Victoria would keep a secret?  The doctor is young and quite good looking.  Go a little too lacy or a bit skimpy and you’d look like a tart ready to flirt and go into high gear.  Err on the conservative side, and you’d look like a novice headed for the nunnery.  I must have made the right choice, because the dermatologist obviously had eyes only for unusual bumps on my skin.  His diligence was rewarded.  He marked a tiny spot on my back with parentheses of indelible ink, took a digital photo of it and showed it to me. 

I ended up feeling like a monkey.  I don’t remember that he did it before, but this time he examined my scalp.  If he were looking for lice, that would be nit hunting if not nit-picking.  His fingers walked intently through my hair, and all I could think of was one monkey grooming another, only I was perched on an exam table, not a tree.  Thank goodness I resisted the urge to make monkey sounds and swing off the table!

a.m.