There's nothing like a visit to the dermatologist to make you feel vain and hypochondriacal.

"You're concerned about skin cancer?"

"Yes."

"Any particular spots?"

"My back."

He looks and apparently sees nothing that makes him even want to look twice. "Your back is fine." He then looks at the rest of my body in a "let's humor her" kind of way and pronounces the rest of me fine, too. "You had some other questions?" he asks.

"Yeah. What about these little tiny bumps?"

"What bumps?"

"The ones right here," I answer, pointing.

"I don't see any bumps."

"Right here."

"Oh. Those are oil glands. They're normal. Anything else?"

"Yeah. What about these little broken capillaries?"

"What broken capillaries?"

"These ones."

"Well, I suppose you could have them lasered if you wanted to, but really, you can hardly see them. The treatment might very well leave a more obvious mark."

"Oh. Okay. Well, what about this sun damage? Can I fade it?"

He responds—of course—with, "What sun damage?"

I point, a little sheepishly.

Before I left, he scribbled in my file for a bit. I couldn't see what he wrote, but I'm pretty sure it was, "Patient has been living in L.A. for too long."