I accept that that hard living, the environment, the passing of years, and, in my case, a certain lack of balance, can take its toll on the body. Sunburned skin, puffy eyes, scars, moles, a tattoo from a certain Tijuana blackout… You name it, our body is a unique constellation of oddities and quirks that make us, well, us.
I can live with that.
For the most part, anyway. When I can see a clear cause and effect, I can suck it up and bear the dairy-driven rosacea or escalator scar from a New Year’s Eve gone terribly wrong. But I can’t wrap my mind around skin tags.
These tiny growths create a flesh-colored necklace around my neck, or pop up in an armpit or under a boob. Skin tags are basically body barnacles. And I want them scraped off my hull lickety-split. I’m all for personal growth, but that doesn’t mean I want little bits and pieces of skin rubbing against pendants or chafing against an underwire. While punching doesn’t help much in this case, clipping, burning, and excising in my derm’s office will teach these outcroppings not to rear their ugly heads. Tag, you’re hit.