The Ice Man Cometh

Oh, to be tanned. But unfortunately, I'm hopelessly Irish complexion-wise. I'm pretty sure that the horrible truth is that I was never my father's son, but instead, the progeny of a torrid affair my mother had with an albino malignant. In my teenage years, I'd get laughed at when I'd go to the beach, so white were my legs. "Push him back - he's dying!" were the cries I'd hear when I went to the beach.

Oh, sure, I've tried. Tanning booths. Every sun lotion and screen known to man. And all things in between. The result: if I stayed out too long, I'd usually look like I'd been in a severe nuclear accident.

Sadly, solar exposure adds up, especially for the fair skinned dorks like myself. Last year, I went under the knife to have a pre-cancerous growth excised from my arm. (I suspect that it was actually an oak tree growing, but they didn't have the guts to tell me.) And this year, I'm getting to know liquid nitrogen up close and personal. My doctor has been freezing pre-cancerous spots on my face before I get even uglier.

Today, I look great. I have these red and black spots on my face from where I was frozen. I look like a poster child for a social disease. Maybe that's why my cow-workers won't have lunch with me. But then, they never do.

It's funny that I never had this problem when I lived in Minnesota. But then, the winters were so cold, that it was even colder than the liquid nitrogen applied to my face. Maybe that's why Minnesotans have good complexion. Nothing can live in that climate. Except mosquitoes, perhaps. Somebody please explain that to me.

No matter. My doctor (oops, I forgot; I must now refer to him as my "healthcare provider" or "caregiver" - please excuse me for being politically incorrect and too clear with my description) assures me that the spots will go away in a week or two. And I believe him. After all, I pay him a lot of money to take everything he says at face value.