Holy Moley.

"Honey, this is going to be a cosmetic procedure... it doesn't need to come off."

"Yes, but my grandfather had skin cancer..."

"This is definitely benign."

"... and it's doubled in size over the last couple years..."

"You've had children.  It's hormones."

And so went my third consultation with a dermatologist in the last couple of years.  Same conversation, different doctor.  However this time, I finally decided to get the mole below my mouth removed.  The doctor took a few moments to outline the surgery on my face with a black marker.  Then, before actually performing the surgery, he sent me back out into the crowded waiting room/reception area to pay the $450 out of pocket for a 'cosmetic' (not covered by insurance) procedure.  

I never saw myself as a candidate for any type of cosmetic surgery.  As I've gotten older, I have begun to feel more comfortable in my own skin.  Luckily, the minor issues I have can be cured with a few months on Weight Watchers, a Miracle Bra, the right pair of jeans and some routine waxings.  The one exception has been this mole.

This insecurity began in high school, as do most insecurities I guess.  I was at Great Adventure with a couple of friends and we were waiting on line for some ride.  I remember that it was insanely hot and sunny.  I was chatting with my then-boyfriend and in the middle of the conversation he felt it appropriate to burst out laughing and tell me that I had hair growing out of the mole on my face.  Now, I could have shot back a comment about his massively bad acne problem, but instead I covered my face in horror.  I laughed it off and went on with the day-- but to my 15-year-old self, this was earth shattering and an insecurity was born.  As years went by, it only got worse.  

Part of me is annoyed that I succumbed to the insecurity and got this procedure-- that I had what felt like a thousand stitches in my face this week-- that I spent a rare surplus in our bank account on something so nonessential... and painful.  

But another part of me is relieved that, when I bend down to talk to my three-year-old, he will no longer push on my mole and yell, "Beeeeeeeeeep!" at the top of his lungs.

And yes, it feels as bad as it looks.