Yesterday was the follow-up appointment to the follow-up appointment for that little skin cancer thing diagnosed last November, where-in my dermatologist suggested I go to a plastic surgeon, since the skin blip, an age-and-sun thing, was on the bridge of my nose, and the plastic surgeon could nip more comely*. Only there appears to be nothing left to nip. For which I am more than grateful.
Still, I can’t help noticing my P.S. makes $2,850 an hour (if you count by the 2 minutes, tops, I spent with him) or only $475 an hour (if you count the ten minutes I was late). I have to believe I am subsidizing unfortunate women who need intensive reconstructive surgery.
Mommas, let your babies grow up to be plastic surgeons.
*What my dermatologist said was, "I would do this on an older person, but considering the location, for cosmetic reasons, I think you should go to a plastic surgeon." I was totally shocked, since I had been a patient of hers for years, that she would suggest anything to me for cosmetic* reasons, and she did not think I was an older person.
*It was once pointed out to me that I shared my fashion sense with a character in Eudora Welty's Delta Wedding who went to the closet and called out to her clothes: "I'm going to town. Anybody that wants to go, just jump on." All of my personal style is predicated on that oblivious, insouciance of apparantly living without mirrors.
And for those of you who do brain teasers to keep yourselves mentally agile, you can do algebra and figure out what my bill was. Actually, algebra isn't required, I guess, just dividing, but if you're OCD you could investigate to see if my math checks out.