My wife is a dermatology PA.  This means that 73% of her conversations begin with someone saying, “Hey can you look at this?”  Aside from intense scolding whenever I get sunburned, it’s generally nice to have a derm PA in the house.  She can check all of those weird spots and stitch me up when I split my foot open on a boat propeller (that was another story).

Just the other day, I asked her about a spot on my left cheek (no… my face cheek).  I’ve had what I thought was a freckle for a while and it seems to be changing shape.  When I noticed that it was also raised, growing, and possibly developing a spinal cord, I decided it was time for her to look at it.  One of my worst fears was confirmed.  No, it wasn’t melanoma.  In fact, it wasn’t any type of cancer.  It was an age spot.

At least most people call them age spots.  Some people call them liver spots, which must have some kind of medical meaning because I’m not sure what my liver has to do with my cheek.  I’ve also heard the politically correct term of wisdom spots.  If we’re going to make up names for the sake of making us feel better, why don’t we just call them denial spots?

Call it what you want, I have one… make that two.  She found another on my leg.  So I have two of these things growing on me and young people don’t have them.  I’m learning that the phenomenon of growth never ends.  When you’re young, you grow.  As you get older, things grow on you… warts, spots, hairs, Matlock reruns, etc.

Hairs are another weird thing.  I’m getting quite a few grays on the side of my head.  Sara wants to pluck them out, but I refuse to let her.  They’re about four times as thick as my regular hairs, so I figure they’re here to stay.  I’d rather have gray hair than none at all.

Then there are those mysterious hairs that just pop up overnight.  I’ve got this one on my neck that I nicknamed kudzu because I can cut it or shave it and the thing will be two inches long the next day.  I thought about trying some RoundUp on it, but I’m afraid I’ll make it angry.

The funny thing about all of these aging maladies is that I have no desire to turn back the clock.  We went to a concert in Athens last week.  That’s where the University of Georgia is located, so there were a lot of college kids at the venue (I guess if we went to concert where college kids showed up, we’re still somewhat cool).  The main act didn’t even take stage until 11:15.  I kept checking my watch and thinking about the babysitting tab we were running up.  We didn’t get home until 1:30 in the morning and had to get up early the following morning to drive to Chattanooga for a wedding and birthday party.

We were tired to say the least.  The next day, Sara asked me if I wish I could be college-aged again.  I didn’t even have to think about it.  It was a definite no.  I found that almost everyone at that concert who was college-aged was both annoying and stupid.  That must mean that when I was that age, I was also annoying and stupid.  Nothing against any of you reading this that may be at that age.  I know you don’t think you’re annoying and stupid… but you are wrong.  You won’t realize it for another 15 or 20 years, but you are wrong.

Do I have found memories of my youth? Of course, but that doesn’t mean I want to throw away all of the lessons learned since then.  Maybe if we spent more time applying the wisdom of our age, we would spend less time romanticizing the fondness of our youth.

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