Holy Moley

Have you voted? I sure hope so because this post has nothing to do with politics. Frankly, I for one need a distraction from this frenzied anticipation. And nothing shouts "distraction" like a good skin abnormality story. Right?

Once upon a time, I shared my oh-so-lovely varicose vein with you. (Stupid exercise.) And now I bring you another installment of "what the heck is that?" Yes kids, it's time to share another of my...uh...unique features.

Okay, here goes. I'm moley.


There I said it. Although if you've seen me in person, this is not exactly breaking news. Whatever.

For the rest of you, I'm not moley in a cute Cindy Crawford kind of way. No, mine are more like the creepy talking variety...




Somehow I managed to escape my childhood without getting teased about the handful of moles on my face. I guess when you're tall, gangly and acne-ridden, there is plenty of other material to grab hold of. Or maybe they didn't appear until I was older. Or maybe they're not that noticeable. Nah, that can't be it.


Regardless, no one has ever really commented on them and since I see them everyday, I generally ignore them as well. That's not to say that they don't bug me. Just not on a daily basis.


That is until Lillian came along. Actually I think my nephews noticed them first. Those innocent little cherubs would look at me intently, extend a chubby little finger and try to twist the moles right off my face. Lillian did the same thing. Obviously these wise children realized those bumps didn't belong there.


After the initial hey-that-doesn't-belong-there response comes the next phase: acceptance. Like most children, around 18 months, Lillian began pointing and listing my features.

"Ears." point.
"Nose." point.
"Eyes." poke (defensive maneuvers are recommended)
"Mouth." point.
"Mole." point.

Wait, what?


Yep, the moles became just another bump on my face for her to point out. And suddenly, I noticed them. And I wanted them gone.

Well, life managed to take priority over vanity and I haven't done anything about it. But suddenly I find myself bracing every time Ian looks at me intently. Someday soon he's gonna reach out a chubby little finger and try to twist one of those little buggers off my face. I wonder if that will be enough to send me to the dermatologist for a little slice and sew appointment. Or maybe I'll manage to move to the next phase: acceptance.