Beauty Marks.

I have been mole-y since birth.

My arms, my shoulders, my legs, below my mouth, I even have not one, but two moles on my vagina.

Which makes me special, right mom?

I’ve only ever seen one, and without a mirror, I can’t confirm the second, though I’ve had various reports.

It’s like the Loch Ness Monster of vagina moles.

The first half of my life was spent hiding my moles. Mostly because my grandmother told me that moles were for lumberjacks, which at the time, was exciting because I liked trees and beards.

But, it turns out there is nothing lovely about seven year olds who dress in flannel, shove socks in their pants and talk about wood all the time, so we started calling them beauty marks, and one by one, my grandma paid to have them removed.  I mean, I was already poor with frizzy hair, we couldn’t very well have me covered in brown spots and dressing like a bear.

How would I get married and have a million Roman Catholic babies!?

Sometime around 6th grade camp, the mole removal stopped, I assume because between my weight and the gap between my front teeth, being covered in spots was the least of my worries.

Plus Cindy Crawford had a mole and she was in a George Michael video.

Everything was going to be fine.

I have since had a quiet co-existence with my beauty marks, and save for the red one on my left boob (seriously, I am so hot naked, you guys) that Gigi continuously tries to pick off, I don’t really even notice them anymore.

And neither have you, on account of theses here brilliant mustaches.

Nothing to see here. Or….on my vagina. Ahem.

Until last week, as I stood in my living room heaving up my side of a 60 inch television to hang on the wall, out of boredom and my refusal to make eye contact with Andy, therefore giving him some false impression of approval, I noticed one of the small moles on my arm had a black scab over it.

Now, I’ve googled skin cancer enough to know, a black scabby mole is no bueno.

Andy, I have to put this tv down right now, I might have skin cancer.

What?

This mole, do you see it, with the scab, that’s probably skin cancer.

I’m sure you just cut yourself and don’t remember.

Wow, really? I want to remember your look of unconcern right now, you know, for when they tell me you’re going to be a widow.

You’re ridiculous.

I’m ridiculous how? Because I’m concerned about this misshapen black scabby death mole on my arm? Look, when I touch it with my chin like this, it hurts. Moles shouldn’t hurt, Andy.

It hurts because you’ve headbutted it about 50 times now, stop doing that and just relax.

But I couldn’t relax. My brain functions on a high cancer alert at all times. Fevers, joint aches, weird boob lumps; all causes for concern. And now I have a legitimate symptom.

How is this fair, I don’t even lay out. I simply don’t have the attention span.

Hell, I don’t even like being in the sun at all. In fact, I say at least five times a day that I want to move to the Pacific Northwest, and people are always all, but it rains all the time there, you know, like I’ve never watched the news or read Twilight.

Also, how have we not patched the O-Zone yet? Sharks are breeding with other types of sharks making mutant sharks, and we can’t fix the cancer hole in the sky. Awesome.

After a whole week of waiting, I was sitting on a paper sheet in the office of my doctor, nervous about the tray of sharp knives and needles beside me.

(Doctor Pro Tip: Don’t make me hang out with the weapons you’re going to slice me up with while you’re finishing up with another patient and your nurse insisted on weighing me, even though, in my medical opinion, my current weight has nothing to do with mole removal, and also, I have really heavy earings on.)

He came in, looked at my mole, and was all…meh, looks fine.

It looks fine!?

Words that should have been a relief, turned into a challenge, and in a matter of minutes I was taking off my clothes showing him every mole I had, only to have him tell me they looked like perfectly normal moles.

But, I even have two beauty marks on my vagina, that can’t be good, right!?

It happens.

Do you need to see them?

I have a feeling you need me to need to see them.

We stared at each other intensely. Him uncomfortable on a spinny stool, me sweaty and desperate, holding a pile of my clothes next to the black lung cancer rubber lung.

Um okkkk…. I’ll get a gown.

He checked out the two tiny beauty marks on my girl junk, declared me healthy, and then, suspecting this wasn’t about vagina moles at all, asked me if everything was ok at home and if I wanted to talk about my feelings.

No, this is totally about dying of vagina mole cancer.

Seriously you guys, I can’t talk about my feeling without my underwear on. Shouldn’t they teach that in Doctor school?