I donned my best un­der­wear for a trip to the der­ma­tol­o­gist

Bray People - - NEWS - Jus­tine O’Ma­hony

AF­TER THE RE­LIEF OF NOT HAV­ING TO DISROBE IN FRONT OF HIM WORE OFF, I COULDN’T HELP THINK­ING IT HAD BEEN A WASTE OF GOOD UN­DER­WEAR

THERE comes a time in ev­ery­one’s life when it’s no longer so much fun to take your clothes off! Let’s face it, when you hit 40 very few of us look good let­ting it all hang out. Be­ing naked is of­ten not a pretty sight. And cer­tainly not a sight you’d want any­one else to see, un­less we are talk­ing about a sit­u­a­tion in­volv­ing con­ju­gal rights or life and death!

I had to visit the der­ma­tol­o­gist the other day. Noth­ing ma­jor, just a dodgy mark on my face. You would think this wouldn’t in­volve any­thing more than him ex­am­in­ing my gob with a mag­ni­fy­ing glass and one of those miner’s hel­mets with a light on top.

That’s how I got caught out the last time. I went for a sim­ple ex­am­i­na­tion of a fa­cial blem­ish and ended up hav­ing to strip down to my undies. Un­match­ing, old grey­ing undies at that. I was mor­ti­fied. Ap­par­ently my doc­tor is a very thor­ough med­i­cal pro­fes­sional and wanted to make sure there was no other dodgy marks any­where on my per­son and so ex­am­ined me top to toe. Lit­er­ally.

I wasn’t go­ing to get caught this time. I donned my best bra and knick­ers, nor­mally saved for spe­cial oc­ca­sions (Christ­mas and Anniversaries!), shaved my legs, mois­turised as much of me as I could reach and painted my toe­nails. I was prac­ti­cally first date stan­dard.

Then he opened the door to his rooms and in­vited me in with a big smile. Don’t get me wrong, he is a lovely man but the thoughts of hav­ing to take my clothes off to be scru­ti­nised, ap­pealed to me about as much as giv­ing up wine for Lent.

“Here, let me take your coat and scarf,” he said. I sat poker-faced. “No thank you,” I replied, clutch­ing my hand­bag to my chest, as if he was go­ing to rob it. He looked a bit sur­prised but said noth­ing fur­ther.

Off he went, read­ing through my med­i­cal his­tory, which ac­tu­ally took some time as there’s al­ways some­thing wrong with me. Then he sat back and smiled. “So Jus­tine, are we do­ing an ex­am­i­na­tion from the neck up to­day or shall we do a full body check?”

“Oh the neck up” I replied en­thu­si­as­ti­cally. Thank you Je­sus, thank you! “Are you sure you don’t want me to check the rest of you out? I see here you have a mole on your stom­ach and your right thigh.”

“No, no, no. they’re grand. Ev­ery­thing’s grand. The neck up will be fine!” As I say it, I can’t help won­der­ing when did this new­found mod­esty kick in? There was a time in my twen­ties when the boobs and legs came out ev­ery Satur­day night and my mother would roll her eyes as I walked out the door.

True to his word he ex­am­ined me from the neck up and sent me on my merry way. But af­ter the re­lief of not hav­ing to disrobe in front of him wore off, I couldn’t help think­ing it had been a waste of my good un­der­wear.

Sure I sup­pose there’s al­ways Christ­mas!

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