The Meatball

This entry will embarrass me, but I guess that’s part of exposing yourself via blog to your friends, family, and really anyone with access to the internet. So I’ll cut right to the chase: I have a mole. Well actually, I have two moles. One is under my arm and unfortunately resembles an area that may have been overlooked at my last waxing appointment. I like to pretend that it has a mind of its own and in addition to its Italian accent, has an ‘only child complex’ and desperately seeks attention. I feel like it calls to people when I lift my arm “HEY EVERYONE! LOOK AT ME!” Obviously this has bothered me since I was a kid. In an attempt to make light of it because, incidentally, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable, I started referring to it as “the meatball”. Gross right? It seemed like an appropriate thing to call it, especially considering it spoke with an Italian accent. If I were more clever and original I would have given it a name like “Marcelo” or “Angelo”, but I was seven and had apparently settled on meatball. And so it was.

This particular meatball doesn't come out very often because I tend to avoid sleeveless shirts, unless I’m at the gym. When I’m there it becomes especially obnoxious and screams at everyone around me for the entirety of my upper body workout. I know this because I often find myself noticing people notice it. I really wish it would shut the hell up while I’m trying to exercise. It’s like I have to choose between arm-dangle (as a result of not working out) or a front row seat at the Meatball show. It’s really not fair.

The other meatball, also obnoxious, lives on my cleavage. Awesome place right? This meatball likes to scream, mostly in Italian, ALL the time and not just when I’m working out. If you recall from an earlier post, I have really big boobs. So this means that no matter what, everywhere I go, I hear its little voice screaming for everyone to look at it. I’m actually really self conscious about it. What’s worse is that my friends encourage its behaviour. It’s like they go out of their way to reassure it by saying with their eyes “yes, you’re hilarious and always welcome to join our discussion”. You would think that they’d clue in and realize that I’ve readjusted my shirt 700 times in an hour in an attempt to prevent these rude interruptions. Nope, instead they pause every so often and glance down at it so that it may contribute its bullshit to the conversation. I suppose from the meatball’s perspective, it’s rather polite and accepting of them. From mine however, it’s annoying. Like when you were a kid and your Mom would make you include your super-irriating younger sibling when your friends were over.

I know what you’re thinking; if these two are causing me this much grief, why not have them removed? Well I went to the dermatologist which was an experience in itself. In my particular city apparently there is a “shortage” of specialists and there are only two doctors equipped to handle meatball evictions. Incidentally these two doctors share an office, and have hired A-holes to answer the phones. When they aren’t putting people on hold for no reason, they are sneering at their meatball-clad patients and explaining that a 2:00 appointment will likely take place up to three hours later because they are “overbooked”. Well, I’m ashamed to say, when it was my turn to converse with these jerks, I lost it. My mind, that is. You should know that sometimes I make scenes (Mike hates and loves this about me). It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s quite a spectacle. So the three of us (myself and the two meatballs) actually managed to get the whole waiting room in an uproar over the audacity of this office, and blatant disregard of our collective plans for the day. “WELL” I announced loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I’m not going to sit around here for three hours, I have better things to do!”. I think I may have even flailed my arms a bit allowing the underarm meatball to have its say as well. After a small argument ensued with the A-hole behind the desk, and some threats of taking me to “collections” for the $50 fee I was refusing to pay should I actually miss my appointment; I decided to wait it out at another location and go to my appointment after all. So I went shopping, and had a coffee in Vanessa (my van). Surprisingly it turned out to be a lovely afternoon.

Later, when finally in my appointment, I was told by this dermatologist that yes, she could remove my moles for THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS! Sorry for screaming that – but seriously, three hundred dollars for a procedure that she explained would take “minutes”?

I. Don’t. Think. So.

Damn you, OHIP. Damn you.

 It wasn’t until after I left when I reflected on my saying “thanks, but no thanks” that I was filled with deep regret. That was my chance, and I blew it. And for what? Three hundred dollars? What is my problem?

So, as it sit here typing, my cleavage mole is peeking out over my shirt and obnoxiously crowding my periphery.  My only options at this point are to go back to the dermatologist, where I imagine I’ve been blacklisted, or continue explaining to people that no, there is not a fly on my chest, it’s actually a mole. If I choose the route of acceptance and not remove said mole, I suppose I’ll have to also come to terms with the horrifying inevitability of someone confusing it for spilled food and trying to wipe it off.

Apparently life is full of difficult choices.

By the way, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. I hope that, if anything, it's brought you solace should you have an unsightly feature that you’re too cheap to do something about. After all, if we can’t laugh at ourselves than what the hell are we doing here?