More than 30 hours have passed since my cyst was removed, and I’m pleased to report that the excision was dreamy, and that I’m currently walking around with an ice pack in my pants because when the numbing shots wore off, my hip began to burn like a Blister in the Sun. (You’re welcome, Children of the 80s.) Oh, the burning! Like a fire beneath my waistband! (It will be better tomorrow.)
During the procedure (as I lay (dying, William Faulkner) on my side with shoes, glasses, underpants and everything else on, because everyone knows that I tend to roll with modesty), I asked the surgeon if the cyst was solid, liquid, or gaseous.
Surgeon: It’s solid with a bunch of scar tissue. Do you want to see it?
Me: NO!!!!!!! No, thank you!!! Um, yes. I do.
I turned my head around as the surgeon held up a little wiggly finger-like object.
Me: Vili Fualaau!
Me: I was making a villi slash Mary Kay Letourneau joke. It wasn’t funny. Can I eat that thing so it remains a part of me? Never mind. I’m not making sense.
Surgeon: In a few seconds, you’re going to start smelling something that might seem a little strange.
(She was right.)
Me: That smells delicious! What is it?
Surgeon: Cauterization. It’s your skin. Basically, this is what you would smell like if you were cooking.
Me: I smell like a barbecued pork chop! Does everyone smell like a pork chop?
Surgeon: All skin pretty much smells the same.
Me: It’s funny, because I’m free range and corn-fed. I would imagine my burning flesh to smell more like a portobello mushroom!
Moral of the Story: You might think you’re better/smarter/cuter/et cetera than (insert your foe’s name here), but at the end of the day, you both smell like delicious pork chops when your skin is on fire. Sleep tight.