If you’ve read my book (or previous installments of my Momover column on Cookiemag.com), you’ll know that I’ve had more than a few skin cancer biopsies in my life. I’d guesstimate ten, so now, when I’m completely starkers, I’m fairly strewn with little reminders of my wayward youth spent baking on the beach. And my wayward not-so-youth too; I’ve nipped off to several sun-drenched mid-winter vacations as an adult and — gasp — even used a tanning bed before special occasions such as my nuptials with Hubby.

My point, and I do have one, is that I am HARDLY the person who should be blowing-off her six-month skin cancer screening. But sadly, I’ve done precisely that. The little reminder card arrived in April, I should have booked an appointment for May but didn’t, and now I can’t get in to see my dermatologist until the end of June.

And how’s this for idiotic? I used a whopping SPF 8 at the town pool over the long weekend. Not only should I be using SPF 100, I should also be swathed in fabric, beekeeper-style. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’m getting it out of me. And I’m slathering myself with sunscreen, stat.