Six years ago I was getting dressed and noticed in the mirror that my back looked funky. Some big blobbish freckle-like aliens had sprouted across the upper part of it. “What the heck are those?” I asked myself. Some of them were huge. This called for action--a trip to my doctor.
“You have senile keratosis,” he said. “It’s harmless.”
“Senile keratosis? But I’m only 55! I can’t be senile yet!”
“It’s caused by too much sun exposure when you were a kid and also by heredity.”
Okay, so I shouldn’t have slathered up my body with Crisco when I was a teenager, hoping to get a golden fried chicken tan. Damn. Where was the information about SPF-31 sun blocks back in 1965? As for the heredity issue, I’ve always known I was the product of mutated genes. Nothing new there.
Fast forward a few weeks ago and the gal who gives me massages said, “You’ve got some odd-shaped moles on your back that you might want a doctor to check out.” I explained it was just senile keratosis, but I would still get a doctor‘s appointment. It wouldn’t hurt.
When I got home from the massage, I asked Big Bore to check over my back. “Are there any of those keratosis deals on my back that look different to you?”
“Well,” Dr. Bore examined, “one is scalier than the others.”
Great. Not only am I senile. Now I’m turning into a reptile. A senile reptile.
Long story short, I asked my current doctor to take a look. And guess what. I have--surprise, surprise--senile keratosis. And next week he’s going to remove some of the bigger, uglier, more senile ones. I think it’s some sort of scraping procedure. My back will still be senile but just not as much. I hope I can remember to keep the appointment.
1 comment:
i'm just impressed that you go to a massage therapist in Eureka. a small town with benefits.
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