Just another day in spinster paradise.

Today I wore a dress to work that was somewhat more low-cut than I would normally wear to work. I mean, if I were going to the clubs and hoping to get my free drink on, then it wasn't low-cut enough.

But for work, the dress v-necked to the point that I was definitely aware that my chesty was on display and therefore covered it up with a fun polka-dotted scarf. I normally like to dress like a librarian, but every now and then I am in a big hurry and don't have a proper idea of how appropriately dressed I may or may not be.

But it was really, actually, quite warm today for a January day, and I was in meetings in a stuffy office and it was really a terrible time to be wearing a scarf.

I spent most of the meetings trying to subtly rearrange the scarf so that I could get a little bit of air circulation around my neck but without also busting out my bosom. It was a fine line to walk, trying to balance my body temperature with my need for modesty. A trial run at menopause.

Eventually I ended up with the perfect combination of draping to maximize air flow. Or perhaps my stress over my dress was causing me to sweat and the sweat was cooling on my neck.

About half-way through leading discussion on some books matters, I looked down to realize that I could see straight down my artfully draped scarf into my dress and deep into my canyon of boobs, and there, on the side of my breast, was a discolored spot.  Much like a mutant mole.

A spot I had never seen.

A spot that looked exactly like the pictures of skin cancer they used to show in health class in an effort to scare you into wearing hats.

A spot that probably escaped detection because I've been wearing multiple layers of sweaters in our cold and cavernous house.

A spot not revealed in the shower because our bathroom has very terrible lighting and I'm so very blind.

A spot that, as the meeting dragged on and immediately segued into two more consecutive meetings, appeared to grow before my very eyes.

Finally, after three hours of sitting in that stuffy room, I was free to run to the bathroom to get a closer look.

I pulled off my dotted scarf and looked down. It was still there. The spot was in the same place, staring back at me with all the implications of impending doctor's visits. My gut clenched and I reached into my dress top to touch the spot, ready to confront my worst fears as an uninsured, aging, spinster.

Who would take care of Mondo and Wiener, I wondered?

As these terribly sad and depressing thoughts rushed through my mind while I stared down at my boob, I let out a big deep breath.

Which is when the mole flew off my chest.

And when I realized I didn't have skin cancer.

I had a piece of almond skin stuck to my boob.