THIN SKINNED

DREADING A SPOT OF BOTHER AFTER CHILDHOOD SUMMERS SPENT CARELESSLY ROASTING UNDER UV RAYS

Folks, I should have been much happier. It’s not every day I get to lie on a bed in my undies while two ladies give me their undivided attention.

Yep, it was time for my annual skin check and, according to Long Suffering Wife, it had been more than 10 years since my last one.

Now, like a lot of Aussie kids of my generation, I spent far too many summers wearing little else but a pair of shorts and a dab of sunscreen on my nose.

While I can guarantee my schnozz and backside are completely melanoma-free, I’m not so confident about everywhere else.

Keep in mind my generation did everything we could to kill ourselves by overdosing on sunlight. When we went to the beach, we’d slather coconut oil all over ourselves then baste for ages on the sand.

Honestly, we might as well have been skewered on a rotisserie.

Anyway, because it’s been so long between check-ups I was bracing myself for some bad news. So, every time the nurse stopped, poked at a suspicious spot and made the sound I’d been dreading, “Mmm?”, my heart would skip a beat. Whenever this happened, the doc would lean over, peer through her magnifying glass at the dodgy dot then shake her head and I’d start breathing again.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thoroughly inspected.

They checked under my feet, between toes and fingers and even braved the dense jungles of hair on my head and back. They were painstakingly meticulous … or had OCD. Possibly a little of both.

Eventually they stamped “clean skin” on my forehead and, as I got dressed, the doctor explained there was a crucial reason, usually grave, for each element of the skin check.

With this in mind, I booked next year’s appointment before leaving the surgery.

Sooner or later my personal UV ray bill will arrive in the mail, so in the meantime, I might as well enjoy some up-close, personal attention from two fussy ladies.