Last night I was fiddling with a small mole on my stomach, because I had nothing else to do and I didn’t want to clean the kitchen, and I suddenly remembered that it’s not a mole. At my last appointment, my dermatologist informed me that it’s actually called a “barnacle.” You know, like the crusty crap that grows on the underside of a boat.
So that makes me feel pretty sexy. Between my barnacle, my bunion, and my wankles, I would say I am aging less like a fine wine, and more like an expired container of milk that you forgot you had in the back of the fridge until one day you smell something rank and you think, “What on earth is that stench?!?” and you dig through your fridge and throw out a ton of shriveled baby carrots and realize maybe you should stop buying so many baby carrots and you keep digging and find 14 half-eaten jars of pasta sauce and realize maybe you should stop opening new jars of pasta sauce and then finally you see it hiding in the back corner with crusty milk bits hanging off the lid and you say “Oh hi Amy – I didn’t see you there. You’re old and moldy and you’re starting to rot.”