Moles

The Skin Kind and in My Yard

Before we begin this episode, a shout out and thank you to new paid subscribers—

Phyl C and Jeff S! And as always, grateful for my free subscribers.

Now for my mole story, Part 1

I have moles—on my body and in my yard. First the body moles.

You can’t get any more unglamorous than the name. Moles. I prefer freckles, speckles, beauty marks, and my favorite, angel kisses.

When I was a kid, I had a plethora all over my body and my older sister, (the middle of three) used to count them in a mischievous manner. I’d squirm away, humiliated, when she got to thirty-two. What’s worse, I couldn’t tally hers. She had none. (Hi, sis. We’re close now.)

My father was a doctor and taught me the proper word for a mole is Nevus or Nevi (plural). Goodie goodie. That did nothing for my self-esteem.

My mom tried. “Marilyn Monroe highlighted hers with make-up. It was her signature.”

I probably stamped my foot and said, “She didn’t have a star map on her back. And this is 1974, mom, not 1954.”

“You know, she converted to Judaism. Natalie Wood is also Jewish.” Mom liked to mention famous people who were Jewish like us. It didn’t matter if it was a one-eighty from the subject of discussion.

I loathed the moles on my stomach. They looked like buttons going down my torso like I was wearing a cardigan. As a teen I didn’t wear bikinis because I was embarrassed by my moles. All the other cute, perky teenage girls at the beach had flawless skin—and tans. (My skin went straight to the burn. A boiled, spotty lobster.) If I ventured into a two piece, I’d throw on a big shirt to hide these blemishes.

In my twenties, when I learned that moles can be cancerous, I was thrilled. I had the greatest excuse when I went to the doctor.

“I don’t want to get skin cancer. Please remove these moles,” I said to the dermatologist.

“Which ones,” he said.

I thought I saw him smirk. “Because there are so many?” I said half-sardonically. I wanted to grunt aloud at Dr. Skin and say, “You too? You going to start counting?”

Instead, I pointed at my torso and said, “The ones that look like cardigan buttons.”

“They do,” Dr. Skin chuckled as he looked at them through a loupe that photographers use. (Magnified moles! Ugh!)

I snickered with him, but those buttons pushed my buttons. There was a long line of societal imperfections on my person-- that took me into adulthood and withstood the test of time. Even when I arrived at the first boyfriend stage, I’d wrap a sheet around myself like they do in the movies. But when first-boyfriend ripped the sheet off me I was horrified, exposed.

Little did I know upon special encounter (yes, sex) that first-boyfriend didn’t care about moles. It was a relief to know there were other parts of my body he preferred.

(Then there was post coital exuberance…)

One spiritual friend said the moles represented how many lifetimes I’ve lived.

“So, I’ve had like three hundred and twenty lives?”

“Possibly.”

“What? I had to go through High School three hundred times?” (I rounded off the number thinking I was probably a pauper in most of those lives and didn’t make it past grade school, if I went to school at all. More likely I went to High School in maybe fifty lifetimes. That’s plenty. In fact, one is too many.)

{Note to self: Reincarnation—a future post. How many people thought they were once Napoleon? Raise your hands.}

Years later I discovered there was this thing called laser, a modern version of the one that Bond villain used.

I bought a Groupon and had many more lasered off. (Laser’s R Us should have advertised it this way--Group-on, Group-off.) I felt better. More confident. I bought my first backless dress. The cardigan scars were fading and the Little Dipper Constellation on my back was a faint memory, resembling dead stars that burned out millions of years ago. (Nerdy, outer-space freak editor hubby wanted me to write that I had a black hole on my back.)

Speaking of my sweet hubby of 31 years-- Pre-laser he told me, “They’re a part of you, and I love every inch of you.”

“Even the dry flakes that might fall out of my nose in the summer months or because of the dry heat of the furnace in winter?”

“Yup. All year ‘round.”

“Toenail clippings like the one that flew into your eye?” I pressed. (No picture. Too gross, says the girl who writes about farts.)

“You know, my mom had lots of freckles too.” He said, ignoring the tricky toenail question. (Boogers, okay, toe nails, meh.)

“Yeah, but she had the real ones. She had freckles like an Irish red head. Those are cute. She didn’t have polka dots like the dress from ‘Pretty Woman’.” And mine weren’t cookie-cutter round. I had one that was the shape of Phoenix. Not the bird, the city.

(I remembered the dress as having brown spots. I must have been projecting my imperfect woes onto Julia. Sorry, not sorry.)

Against my wishes, my moles were passed down to my kids, especially my adult son.

“Why do I have so many moles?” He asked as a by-the-way question because he was changing his shirt. “I didn’t have these when I was growing up.”

“They’re called angel kisses and you carry them well.” (If I was a mean mom without front teeth I would have said, “You know how lucky you are that you didn’t have them as a kid?”)

He gave me the I’m-24-ma-look and shrugged. He’s a guy. It was a passing thought. Guys don’t count their moles. He was already onto another subject, probably describing the latest build from his 3-d printer.

A year later I did mention the Groupon laser possibility; if his beauty marks really bothered him. After all, he could get skin cancer.

I’m content with my present mole status. There are enough to give me character yet not too many to legitimately worry about the Big C. My concern now is for my epidermal blush (I have an extensive sun block collection) but especially hubby’s. He’s so white he’s practically see-through. He likes to call it “Greenwich Standard White.” His veins protrude like branches of a blue tree. I could probably count them. Phlebotomists love him.

What’s the moral of this story? Don’t count your moles before they’re scratched.

Info alert: As we age we develop more beauty marks, freckles, skin tags, hemangiomas…. Watch out, sistah, I’m coming to count.

Do you have flaws that still bug you or are you luxuriating in blissful self-acceptance mode?

Stay tuned for Moles Part 2—They’re Hiding in the Yard