My Face

What is it about a face? I have an oozing sore on my face, but if it appeared on my arm, or my neck, even, women everywhere would not flinch, followed by the attempt to hide the flinch, upon seeing the herpes (yes, you call any sore in or on your mouth herpes) on my face. The problem with the oozing is no one can actually see that part, but I can feel it. It creates a little crust on there so it drives me a bit batty as I imagine the monstrosity that is my lip. Sure, I joke, I call it my alien, or a botched piercing. But a casual gander in the mirror, and despite the fact that it is nary a centimeter wide, and my otherwise rather decent face becomes an atrocious offense to females everywhere, including me. Probably only me. Once out of doors, I have no companion mirror to confirm that it's bad, but not flaking or dripping, so I'm a boat with one oar, a kite with no string? This paranoia is especially potent when traipsing through a cosmetics aisle, past the many gleaming bottles of cover-up, the women reading carefully, as if from the talmud, or perhaps a nutrition label. The face and I feign indifference to such concerns, as we aim toward the prescription counter to get the pills to retard the growth of the offending invader. Why fuss over a lollipop red third eye emanating from my upper lip; its golden crust occasionally accumulating, hardening, and flaking off? I want it gone, now.

Back to the original question: what is it about a face? Despite research and literature and revelations about the misguided emphasis on beauty, the fact remains that no one, no one is cavalier about having an open sore or a huge zit or any sort of growth on one's face. The face is the mechanism through which we present our selves - our feelings, our thoughts - to the world. Plus: everyone looks at your face! If your shoes don't match, you could go all day without a sole -haha - noticing. But! If you have a piece of green something in your teeth, I will watch it the whole time we are talking. Unless we are absolutely transcendent, and I absolutely am not, we really truly care about the face.

The lesson here is, um, that it's important to be open about our faces because, unlike more serious maladies, everyone can see them anyway? An open-face sandwich is actually a political statement? Don't kiss a frog if she has an oozing sore? Dare to go out-of-doors, even when you look like a dermatology textbook photo? Or perhaps, in this one instance, grow a moustache.


A caveat: I am quite sure that having herpes on one's face is preferable to having genital herpes, and that is a topic that I am unqualified to write about. Nevertheless, sex is a natural part of being alive and STDs happen - to the brave, the smart, the good, the bra-less, and the young preppies.

Bad Brains

This is not a long post. This is hardly a post at all because it is hard to write anything, or do anyting, when one is depressed, very sad, unmotivated, unclear, or in a fog. I am not referring to regular sadness, but to the level of depression that interferes with the quality of one's life, as they say. The type that makes everything seem gray and drab. Right now everything is truly gray and drab, but even if it were sunny outside, it would be a sooty sun. It is hard to write about depression without kvetching - complaining - but then the point of this blog is to say the stuff we usually keep hidden. So on behalf of depressed women everywhere, I am going to lie down under a blanket. A gray, sooty blanket.

The Revenge of My Conscience

Fate will not allow it. It is unquestionably in poor taste for me to reminisce about my teen (and later lapses) - years as a smoker - and also a fundamentally unhappy person with halitosis and stinky fingers - on my blog about being open about women's health. Not to mention the lying bastards who try to convince children to smoke. So while my tongue was obviously in my cheek, the body rebelled. Two nights ago, a canker sore on my lip, actually a mongo herpes sore, sprouted and was itchy, burning, tingling and bubbling. Fortunately, my dermatologist is also one of my best friends, and it is through her generosity that I received quick treatment. But as many ailments do, the itching and swelling and discomfort returns as the day ends, right in the center of my upper lip. A mere millimeter away from the very spot where a cigarette would dangle. I do not believe that everything happens for a reason; I do not think I believe in signals; but I do believe that my conscience may have slapped a big fat puss-ball on my mouth.

Why Can't I?

Following a recent loss, many people have told me to take care of myself. Lovely, thoughtful, intelligent people, who know from their own experiences that one must pamper one's self and slow down some to stay sane. They are concerned and compassionate, and I do feel slightly stricken when I hear it because I know I am not doing it. I am a mother, I work full time, and I'm not sure how to squeeze in the taking care of myself part. If I do go to the gym, or manage some yoga - which, in honesty, I am just getting back to after months as a sloth, eagerly saying I'll probably go and then never going - I am so goddamn tired that I take a bath and sleep. It is definitely caring for myself but I am more not doing it than doing it. I also have to not do all of the other things I'm supposed to do but I'm not, like organize my clothes, clean my bureau, help the children organize their rooms, and sort through the many piles of varied things I accumulate everywhere, at home and at work. I am really busy not doing a lot of stuff.

Plus there is a part of me - not the poor-me part, I'll skip that - but another, brazen, immortal part that truly believes I should do whatever the hell I wanna do. Why can't I smoke a fucking cigarette for crissake? I used to smoke, I enjoyed it immensely, and then something overtook me - a tiny moment of forward thinking? - and I realized I could not do that. But why? It is so much fun. Why am I of the age that I must know that some things are good for me and others are not? I hate knowing. I don't wanna know. I would like to eat a chocolate donut and dip it in coffee and I would like some fried chicken and I would like to watch more television, and go to more movies. I would like to have several naps a day.

Perhaps the best solution to the time crunch plus resistance-to-self-care would be a healthy-vitamin aromatherapy cigarette! I have time to smoke, definitely. It's easy as breathing, you just have to have two free fingers. Some people dangle it and don't even use a hand, like Clint Eastwood, and they let the ashes fall here and there, charming little specks of dust. I could smoke and brush my teeth at the same time; I could read, clean my bureau, drive children anywhere. I'm not sure about flossing, but I could sacrifice. My Whole-Body Cigarettes would increase lung power, lower cholesterol, and do the dishes at the same time. Okay, that might be a bit much to ask. Back to reality: the second-hand aroma would relax my children with the scents of chamomile and orange, and magically increase my body's ability to maintain vigor on 5 hours of sleep per night. I'll use the extra time to take a walk, a run, go to yoga class, or meditate. Alas, since society is not ready for many of my ideas (just wait, you'll be begging your grandchildren to light up), I am planning on yoga at 8 a.m. We'll see if I make it.