Larry, Curly, and Mo(l)e

I am generally a very mole-y white person thanks to the great genes handed down from mostly my dad’s side of the family. My grandpa, my dad, and I have all had suspicious moles removed. I get my skin checked every year because a) I will use my health insurance while I have it, and b) I am real scared of skin cancer, especially because I live in Denver. Fun fact: being closer to the sun means there’s a higher risk of skin cancer.

If you’ve known me or met me at any point in my life, you’ve known me with 3 sizable moles on my face. They make a triangle!


When I was a kid, the moles on my face were basically freckles, and three freckles in the shape of a triangle on a little kid was cute. Then I got older, and they got bigger.

Age 11

And bigger.

Age 20. Also with a spray tan and heavy make up after a performance.

And bigger.

Age 32.

I started to really hate them about the time I reached college. For a while I was retouching pictures to hide them, which is obviously stupid because disappearing them from pictures didn’t disappear them from my face.

The first time I asked about getting them removed, I was about 21. I went to a dermatologist who told me they weren’t suspicious, and removing them would be a cosmetic procedure that I would have to pay for out of pocket. That was that. I couldn’t afford it.

So they stayed on my face, and I tried not worry about it. They continued to grow and take on lives of their own. Ever had a pimple ON TOP OF A MOLE? This has happened several times. Once one of them started bleeding, and it took forever to get it to stop. It was quite an embarrassing problem.

About two years ago, I made an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon my dermatologist recommended, and then I cancelled it. I don’t really know why. I think part of it was that I felt guilty about the prospect of spending such a large chunk of money, but I also felt weird about changing my face in a very significant way. I think I felt what I can only describe as shame for wanting to change myself. How dare I do something strictly out of vanity. I mean, most people say they don’t really notice them. It’s just my face. And then there were the people who said they liked them and that it made me unique. As genuine as those comments may have been, I always felt like those people were just trying to make me feel better about something I could not easily change, and it certainly did not lessen my insecurity.

Over the last year or so, that insecurity almost became unbearable. They’re so big, and one of them kind of looks like a nipple. I can’t look at a picture of myself without my eyes being drawn immediately to the left side of my nose.


So like a band-aid or a protruding facial mole, I ripped it off. I paid in advance, so I couldn’t back out and go through the same song and dance again. They’re gone. I’m stitched up, and what an incredible sense of relief and a weight lifted.


I’ve heard it all, and I’m sure I’ll continue to hear it. I’m sorry if you’ll miss them or if you liked my face before. I’m sorry if you disagree with my vanity. Trust me, I have worked really hard to have a positive relationship with my body and my appearance. I love my size 12 body because it’s strong and healthy and allows me to do so many things I love, and I’ve grown to appreciate the wrinkles that continue to deepen on my face. There are very few things about my appearance I would go out of my way to change.

But here’s the thing… If you’ve never popped a pimple on top of a mole that is on your face, had a mole gush blood with no sign of stopping, or worried so intensely about whether people notice that you have an inflamed mass on your face, it’s not something I expect you to understand.

Do the things that make you feel happy and confident. If you think it’s the right decision, but you’re worried about what other people will think, it’s probably the right decision.

Pardon me while I go change my Steri-strips.

Stop the presses everyone! I wore a skirt today.

It has happened everyone. Hell has frozen over, pigs are flying, and I, the Sultan of schlump, courter of comfort, wore a skirt today. You would have thought my more-feminine-than-usual outfit was a damn sign of the apocalypse given peoples’ reactions.

There was no occasion; I did not have a job interview I was sneaking off to or any plans after work. I purchased something, and then I wore it. That’s the whole story. I put no more effort into myself than usual, except that I was also wearing tights, which automatically means that you have to put forth a smidge more effort throughout the day, particularly with bathroom breaks.

Look, I realize that of those I most closely associate with, one of them should probably quit her job and accessorize for those of us who can’t accessorize for ourselves, one could drape herself in road kill and look gorgeous, and one knows what Louis Vuitton means. Oh and they all wear heels – often. I do not. If I did, I would probably be filled with more rage than the time a gave up carbs and mostly avoided sugar for two weeks. Inevitably, someone would end up with a heel in the eye. By comparison, I’m frumpy AF, so a skirt is surprising to people.

But can everyone just let me wear a skirt in peace, damnit! Otherwise my self-deprecating self will look myself up and down and regret the moment I looked in the closet and thought that red skirt I JUST FREAKING BOUGHT was a decent idea to wear to work. Allow me to demonstrate: When I got dressed in the morning, I didn’t notice that my new skirt really brought out my diaper ass. That’s what I call the kind of ass that is disproportionately large but doesn’t have a great shape; its mostly dimply, and abnormally unimpressive. Also, I mistakenly wore black tights with black flats which made me look a little like a librarian or maybe a nun, but I wore them because I’m weird about showing my legs. Why? I don’t know, maybe because my legs are an extension of my diaper ass and possess some of the same weird qualities. Oh and chaffing is a problem. Beauty is pain, right? Fuck you, no I don’t have a thigh gap.


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Maybe I’ll try this another time with better footwear.

P.S. I looked up the feminine form of “sultan” as I wrote the first part of this post. In case you were wondering, it’s “sultana,” but it doesn’t mean anything royal or authoritative; it’s another word for concubine. This is why the feminist movement exists, folks.

Booty-lifting jeans are lies

Consider this a Public Service Announcement. Do not buy booty-lifting jeans unless you are a size 2-6 and have cute little skinny-girl ass shaped by years of yoga. Aside: I’m not shaming skinny girls or yoga addicts. I applaud your efforts and your metabolism. I guess in that case, no one has a reason to buy them because if you have that kind of ass, it’s already plenty perky. They tell you that putting these jeans on your body will give you the perky yoga ass affect. What actually happens is that all of your dimply ass-flaws will be exposed because they are mostly spandex-like, and it will look sort of like you’re wearing a diaper under those jeans. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate some stretch in my jeans, but there’s a point where they just aren’t jeans anymore. They aren’t even jeggings, and I would know because I own some quality jeggings (Banana Republic, ya’ll).

If you already have a sizable rear, but not the J.Lo kind that almost makes twerking acceptable, don’t. Just. Don’t.

You’re welcome.