A few weeks ago, I had one of those moments that I should have gone down as my dumb brunette moment of that week for blogging purposes, but I guess I forgot about it by the time the weekend rolled around. As I was getting undressed, I happened to glance at the mirror--I don't normally stare at myself naked, I swear--and see this black spot on my chest reflected back at me. When I was a baby, I had a mole on my stomach that turned out to be a malignant melanoma or skin cancer. Although the melanoma was removed before the cancer spread, I've since had to keep a close watch on all other moles for things like irregular edges and color. Since this black spot, which I assumed was a mole, had not been there the night before and was particularly dark, I freaked out. Visions of surgery and chemo flashed through my head as I looked down, touched the mole, and found that, not only did it move, it smelled a lot like chocolate.
That's when I stopped freaking out and turned red. As it turns out, the black spot wasn't a mole at all. It was icing from my birthday cake. Apparently, I had missed my mouth the night before, and the little sliver of icing had fallen down my pajama top and wedge itself between the twins. Thank god I discovered out the "mole's" true identity before I drove to the nearest dermatologist.
I guess I'm going to have to wear a bib the next time I eat a piece of chocolate cake. If there was ever a doubt that I'm a klutz, dropping icing down my shirt and thinking it's a malignant mole the next day pretty much confirms it.
