The guitar players rescheduled CD release party is Friday, and I’ve strapped myself in for “Rapid Fire Romance” Saturday (speed dating - never been, at a jazz club downtown, buffet and cocktails and men 25 – 50. How could I go wrong?) And the rumbling pimple on the bridge of my nose is attempting a violent escape. No slow dig like a prisoner with a spoon scooping through layers of dirt and rock, but a full bore frontal assault, swift and dirty.
It’s crouching directly in the center of my noise. And the color? Given my blue-eyed-freckly-fair skin tone reflects more shell pink than olive or chamois, the red hot rounder glows as if on a switch.
On the up side, the gig Friday will be dark. Guesses of my age almost always come up 5-to-10 years less; the pimple may return me to late twenties. Maybe I’ll meet a nice dermatologist.
I’ll attempt reconnaissance, but working the nugget requires precise care. Overdue it and I create a living thing. The key is to reduce size and swelling and hopefully dismantle with steady hands. I had a stepfather at one time who treated my acne flair ups with the membrane skin of a raw egg, covered in a whipped blend of the white and covered overnight with plaster cast to cure, I suppose, into meringue. A sister-in-law offered an old “model trick." Crush half a Bayer aspirin, mix the dust with Neosporin, apply and cover with Band-Aid (again overnight). I find a layer of fine mineral makeup – the good stuff, the original – works better than most home remedies. With over the counter zingy treatments, a shot to the face of the white cream and I burn, literally peel.
What we cannot contain, we camouflage. Bought a sparkly new eye shadow yesterday, “True Gold” (the loose powders, only way to go girls). Not so glittery to squeal JonBenét, but just enough shimmer to pop against my now darker red hair and heavy bangs, finished with a hint of peach brushed to cheek apples and a smear of light apricot or cherry red gloss.
I’m going in. Godspeed.