Last week I had an appointment to see a dermatologist. Don't ask me how, but a sliver of vanity has survived all the tribulations I've endured throughout the years and that's what prompted the visit to the doctor's office. My condition wasn't serious, just a few facial flaws I wanted removed so my face would be as smooth and clear as Mason's, my three month old nephew. But things rarely go as planned.

I envisioned the doctor poking a sharp needle into my face, and I was actually looking forward to the process. Not because I enjoy pain, but because of the beauty that would result from such discomfort. Women, and even a few men, endure all forms of torture to maintain their youthful glow.

When I arrived at the appointed time and handed the receptionist my insurance information, she informed me I would have to disrobe. I'm no stranger to dermatology visits, but this was the first time I was asked to strip. Whatever for, I inquired. The girl replied the doctor was very thorough and the request was standard practice.

This turn of events surprised me. I explained my complaint was with my face, that all other body parts were intact and working as well as could be expected for a person of my age. Unlike Jack Benny, I did have a birthday in April so I'm 68, but I'm partial to odd numbers so maybe I'll stick with 67 for another year or two. (FYI: The local paper still lists my age as 67.)

Anyway, I tried to explain there was no need to disrobe. It made sense to take off makeup, but for the life of me I couldn't grasp why my clothes had to come off too. I know doctors must protect themselves from lawsuits, but golly, all I wanted was a quick facial procedure. I didn't require poking, prodding, or pruning anywhere else, but rules are rules. I tried to break them, but I lost. There was no chance of escaping a hospital gown if I wanted to see the doctor and even less chance of my agreeing to it. I exited the office looking exactly as I had entered. Only my vanity had been wounded.

Sometimes we're given choices, and other times we're forced to obey or shoulder the consequences. So here I am, the same old gal with the same old face because I refused to surrender my clothes. Maybe I'll be like the Unknown Comic. Remember him? He performed with a brown paper bag over his head. Maybe he didn't see the need to disrobe while a doctor checked his face so he spent the rest of his life hiding in an A&P grocery sack.

That might not be a bad idea.

You know what I mean don’t you?

Meet Sharon