I have dinner plans tomorrow night, a first-in-the-flesh meeting with a seemingly lovely man. The rare breed who after suggesting dinner and the restaurant asks, “Pick you up at 6?”
Pick you up, in a car, like gents do.
Ironic, isn’t it Alanis (although her use of the term was stretching the definition at best, like rain on your wedding day) the rash/bug bite/patch of shame that appeared late last week on my face has exploded into a pulsating pink mound worthy of its own zip code. Just as ironic are the two pounds that crept up on the scale this morning and tingle in my uterus that warns of trouble and flow ahead. As the spot has grown so has the phantom itching and scratching. Feeling buggy, I washed the bed lines in hot yesterday, Dyson vacuumed under the couch cushions, scrubbed my scalp extra hard and applied two thick coats of emollient body lotion.
Appearance is simply the wrapping, no apologies necessary. Before she battled Sir Paul in divorce court and went nutty in the paparazzi-press, I was a fan of Heather Mills. Yes, that Heather Mills who, before the cunty hoopla, served as a bit of a beauty inspiration. Little to do with the long blonde locks, perfect mauve bow of lips or hips I envied, but that she’s an amputee, having lost a leg years ago in a street accident. As a single and dating young woman (chronicled in her first memoir) there was no practical need to apologize for the lack of limb. It simply wasn’t there and wasn’t growing back. Shifted my thinking about my own perceived flaws. Certainly a pimple or odd spot pales next to air where your foot once was, but the concept is the same. I’m exuberant and effervescent, sexy and silly, wise and worthy whether my belly protrudes after last nights dinner of chips and gauc, bad hair day or good, 30 pounds more or less, each surprise body bruise or nose becoming somewhat more bulbous and fleshy with age.
I should wear it proudly. I suspect my face tattoo is something bacterial picked up at the gym, a harbor of infection waiting to attach to moist bodies (those yoga mats are shared and never wiped down - picking up my own today.) Felt like a true jock when, months after beginning my regimen, I lost the full nail on one of the nameless middle toes, popped off whole like a Lee Press-On. I always wear flip flops in the locker room now. Or this could be something passed from the indoor - outdoor, often rolling in the grass and dirt feral cat. The one I tamed.
Yes, I have something on my white dress when I wanted to sparkle pretty. Just require a heavier drag queen hand with the concealor and extra deep inhale of confidence. I have the feeling the dinner date is less concerned. It's not my zit he's after.
Cancel stitching a Scarlet H to my bosom. The shell-pink cluster is a happy little Perioral Dermatitis rash, common in children and YOUNG women (yay, me) sometimes due to sensitive skin versus whitening toothpaste, sunscreen or face creams.
Let the kissing commence.