My doctor does a survey of my face and discovers things that I didn’t know were there. I look at my face at lot (no jokes, please.) “Wisdom spots,” says the dermatologist, a young woman he has summoned from across the street for a second pair of eyes.
“Nice euphemism,” I say. It’s a moment of camaraderie.
I grew up driving tractor in western Kansas, baking in the heat from the sun and the engine. The little image accompanying this site is me standing on the running board of the GMC, watching for a signal from Dad that the bin was full of wheat. No shirt, no shoes, no wisdom. It’s a wonder things are not worse. “Did anyone in your family have cancer?” the dermatologist asks.
“My mother, father, sister, brother.” Maybe they were only wisdom spots.
The dermatologist spritzes something cold on my arm. I ask what she’s doing and she immediately apologizes. “I should have told you. I do this all day and sometimes I just go on automatic.” She’s removing a dry patch that might turn into something more profound.
The body. It’s the anarchist on committee. Wisdom seems to entail how to come to terms with it.