Are You a Dermatologist?

 

Some conversations you return to long after they’ve finished.

One I return to often took place poolside at a Cancun resort. We only had the girls then, and they were little. Our oldest explored the splash pad with her new best friend, who she’d met ten minutes earlier, while I made sure our eight-month old didn’t topple over into the water. 

“Are you a dermatologist?”

I swiveled my head to see a bikini-clad woman dangling her feet over the edge. She looked straight at me.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Are you a dermatologist?” she asked again, confirming I’d heard correctly the first time. “You look like a dermatologist.”

For a split second, I thought maybe I’d finally nailed my skincare routine. 

“Cause you’re all wearing swim shirts,” she continued.

Oh. That.

It was true. I’d learned early in the summer that slathering sunblock on myself, a four-year-old, and a baby made for a miserable experience. So I went out and purchased three SPF 50 swim shirts. They held up nicely against the Mexican sun.

“No,” I said, because that was the best I could come up with.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you might be.”

That was the extent of the conversation. It should have been forgotten along with the struggles of balancing nap times with baby and toddler needs while on vacation, but for some reason it pops into my mind more often than it should.

Possibly, because I’ve now had almost 14 years to come up with a list of responses.

“Yes, I am a dermatologist! And you should probably have that mole checked out.”

“Yes, and professionally speaking, you really should reapply your sunscreen.”

“No, we just really love UV protection. It's kind of our whole thing.”

“We're Dermatologists for Jesus. Have you heard the good news about broad spectrum coverage?”

And finally: “I am, yes. And I charge $400 for poolside consultations so I hope you're just making conversation.”

If time machine technology existed, I would hop right in and go back to that moment. 

But to be honest, I probably wouldn’t change a thing. I’d splash my baby to watch her giggle. Call needless warnings to my four-year old to slow down. And I’d order another pina colada from the swim-up bar. 

Some conversations stay with you not because of what was said. But because of everything happening around them that you almost forgot to notice.