January 31
It makes me sad that you can not see my I'm In Denial Of Being 30 Manic Panic purple streaks.
When It's No Longer Acne, But Not At All Gone:
Let me let you all in on a secret. I am never, ever happy when I look in the mirror. I always see all this shit with my face that leaves me really self conscious, you know? I see myself as being this double chinned stringy haired girl with pretty eyes. My skin, in particular is a horror to me. I'm not going to go over it again, because I've talked about it in excruciating detail, my battle with adult acne. It seems to be under control for the most part now, but I'm left with these dark blotches. Yep. You get a pimple, right? It's a few days in the making. Those tentative, painful days where you've discovered the pimple's existence by accident, maybe one day at work when you're just kind of sitting there, staring off in the distance with your hands cupping your chin. You absent-mindedly reach up to brush the hair off your cheek and there it is, aw fuck. You spend the rest of your day pushing at it with your tongue from the inside of your cheek. You go off to the bathroom to see if you can't see it, which of course, you can't: it's still too early. This pimple has got some growing to do.
For Your Reading Pleasure: The Life Cycle of a Pimple, On Dana's Face:
Day 1: As above. I am staring off into space, sitting at my desk. Or perhaps I am talking on the phone, listening to BS jabble, nodding sullenly at something some lab fuckwit is trying to make me do (today, it was: "Dana, if there's no plan to fix that computer, do you think you can move it?" An entire lab full of guys and Im the one who has to move the dead computer? I see!), pretending to give a shit about whatever is going on, when my finger finds it: the telltale painful bump. I am physically unable to keep from messing with it. No matter what. I am as aware of it as I am of a gigantic booger in the nose of someone with whom I'm having a deep, meaningful conversation. It is constantly at the almost forefront of my mind. I rush home that night and examine the chosen to be Pimple Spot under my unkind bathroom lights. (see note) It is not even remotely ready to be unearthed.
(Note: I feel like this is becoming the Angelo and Eleanor Happy Family Talk Journal, but I know you people love Grandparent Stories. A few months back, Ang & El went off to Lowe's, where he picked out this big ol' heavy glass Kohler bathroom medicine cabinet. It's beautiful! He then picked, to go with it, a 4 foot industrial double fluorescent light fixture. Nick hung the whole shit and shebang for them, and the flipping on of the light after it was all done generated enough light surge to have caused a brownout in an overcrowded Asian nation. Reflecting off the mirrored--inside and out, mind you, cabinets, bouncing off the white walls, it was an operating room, a morgue in there. The four of us crowded around staring at ourselves in different panes. My grandmother: "This is HORRIBLE, Angelo!" "I am the ugliest creature I have ever seen! LOOK AT THAT!! I didn't know I had one of those!! Look at those pores!" I shrieked. "Now THIS is a light! I can finally see myself shave! Thanks, Nicky!" "Angelo, this is UGLY!" "No! It's great! I can see!!" "Look ay my pupils! They're TINY! It's like looking directly into the sun. No shit, I think I'm blind now! Gramma? Is that you?"
My bathroom lights are kind, compared to the wattage going on in there, so I have nothing to complain about.)
Day Two:
Morning Mirror:. Nothing. Painful bump. Go to work. Spend at least 30 separate minutes touching the area, further infecting with dirty Death Star hands.
Afternoon Mirror: Still nothing.
Home: beginnings of redness. Take screamingly hot shower. Leap out, jam face into mirror, squeeze gently. Nothing.Day Three:
Morning Mirror: Red. Painful. Huge. Glowing. All attempts to cover with makeup thwarted by overall shine and persistence of what feels to be a pimple sized fever. Resign self to day of painful smiling and people's eyes lingering at nipple sized growth on cheek.
Afternoon Mirror: No change. Throbbing. It has, perhaps, taken up tap dancing. Home: Shower hotter than day two. Thrust face into mirror, figuring the searing heat will have caused pimple to form head. Nope! More educational prodding and poking. Nary a budge.
Day Four:
Morning Mirror: Big Change! The headless thing has the beginnings of a scab! A mystery. Consider alerting press. Think better of it.
Afternoon Mirror: Painful scab hanging halfway off, due to errant fingernail, removed with surgical precision and minimal blood!
Home: Shower so hot, skin on shoulder blisters slightly. Thought: If the pimple pops, it will go away. Hot water will force it to a head. I will pop. Life will be better. Post shower wrap-up: Success! Head! White! I pop, with vigor! I smear 10 kinds of stinky pimple cream. I go to sleep.Day Five:
Morning Mirror: Scab!
Afternoon Mirror: Itchy Scab!
Home: Accidental raking off of scab!Days 6-10:
Red Bump
Days 11-30:
Red Bump.
Days 31-60:
Red Bump
Days 61-100:
Red Bump disappears, shrinks, leaves dark mark.
Days 100, Etc.:
The dark mark never leaves. Never fades. If I'm lucky, there might be a scar. I am thirty years old. I no longer get come and go pimples. I no longer get weekly renters. I get move in and paint the wall pimples. I get the decorators, the homemakers. Dammit, I want the swinging singles. I want them to see something interesting, if they must, come for a week, and then bounce. "Hey..that's a nice cheek over there...nicer than this one. The rugs are stained. It smells like ass. This is no way to pick up chicks.." and go. That's how it's supposed to work. Get a pimple. It sucks. It hurts. It gets popped. It makes a scab. It GOES THE FUCK AWAY. It leaves no forever mark. It leaves a month long mark.
Tonight, in CVS, I found myself staring wistfully at the rows and rows of skin stuff, all promising me what I used to have. Remember the commercials for "Medicated Fade Cream"? I stood there, with both my hands full of boxes of it, considering purchase. I am not a vain person. I do not think I am All That. I do not even think I am Some of That. With boxes of fade cream in hand, I closed my eyes and thought forward to the tomorrow morning that Could Be, with Medicated Fade Cream. I had this horrible image of my face absolutely devoid of any color, save for these untouchable dark grey spots. I am an uncooked chocolate chip cookie. I gave up. I left with dark spots and pride.
And Not Pimple:
Thanks for the three (three? you people flatter me, you do!) Diarist Award nominations. I was completely taken aback. Go vote for someone if you are eligible. I already did, and believe it or not, I acted like an actual adult and DID NOT VOTE FOR MYSELF.
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Spare me? Don't spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
There's more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what I'm offering if you trouble me.