Holy moley!

I've always been sensitive about my moles. They're scattered across my skin, and I have one, one that's more like a birthmark, on the lower right side of my back which I've always been self-conscious about and kept covered -- nobody other than family members has ever seen it. Swimsuits and clothes have been purchased with that mole in mind.

It's not that I'm too vain about it; instead, it's just another thing that makes me even more different than other people -- like being named "Dänika," being homeschooled, starting college when most people have a couple years of high school left, and having eleven fingerprints* isn't enough?! I grew self-conscious about my moles about the same time I wished my name were "Brittany" or "Ashley;" just anything normal so I could blend in.

But, thanks in part to dooce's latest Monthly Newsletter to her daughter, Leta -- and partly due to a comment a man left on her photo, a comment about how his fiancee's moles are somehow endearing and he would never want them removed, I have come to terms am coming to terms with my moles. It's a new experience, thinking of them as quirky features instead of shameful non-blend-in-able marks that should be hidden, but I feel more comfortable in my skin than I have in a very long time.

I've been examining them, and that smattering by my left wrist? Well, it ain't no Cassiopeia, baby, but it sure looks like the handle of the Big Dipper!

Tomorrow I go to the hospital to get a mole checked out. It started bleeding last month, which is unsettling, as that is never a good sign; I'm going to see a doctor to make sure it hasn't crossed over to the Dark Side and become troublesome. And suddenly the thought they will most likely take it off, as well as a few others, makes me a little upset **, because I was just getting to know them.


* The eleventh is on my left palm, and a different type than all my others.
** Add that to the nervousness factor, and we're all set - yikes!