An Open Letter to My Face Rash
Dear Face Rash,
We’ve been together almost a week now and what a topsy turvy ride it’s been. One minute you were a small red bump, a blip on my chin. One could’ve easily confused you for a zit or a cold sore but you proved them all wrong, didn’t you? You exploded a la the Big Bang and then multiplied like gremlins undergoing in vitro fertilization.
It’s funny to think that mere days ago I didn’t know anything about you. There I was walking along, living my life, minding my own business and, BOOM, I was an X-Files episode. You do know how to make an entrance, sweet pestilence. Now people are leaning away from me at lunch counters, parents are telling their kids it’s rude to stare, and Mike is giving me a lot more forehead kisses. Soon it will be just you and me, dear growth. Is that what you want?
We’ve come a long way in such a short time, darling scourge. In addition to navigating the Spanish health care system together and memorizing the bus routes between Laredo and Castro Urdiales, I’ve learned that sun and wind make you unhappy, sea water angers you, and wine makes you lash out. I’ve also figured out how to communicate through a thick scarf, and channeled Boo Radley.
I must say I’ve found your various stages of development intriguing. Your ability to reinvent yourself again and again astounds me. Remember your boils and sores phase? Misty, water colored memories. I especially enjoyed your dry, flaky period. Remember that time I laughed and the lower half of my face cracked and scaled off into my lap? Hilarious. And who can forget when you woke me up in the middle of the night by pretending my face was on fire. Rascal.
What’s so interesting to me, sweet psoriasis, is that while no one knows what causes you, apparently you are a normal occurrence for women between the ages of 25-40. One might ask how normal is it for your face to turn into a deli meat platter overnight but, hey, I’m no doctor. Still, props to the medical community for keeping you under wraps. I know I enjoyed scaring the crap out of myself Nancy Drewing the World Wide Web.
While I’m so flattered you like my face and seem eager to explore it in its entirety, you should know I’ve started my offensive. I warn you, this isn’t like those early, misguided days when I naively applied acne medication which felt like pouring gasoline onto an open wound. This time I’m bringing out the big guns. I’m pumping myself with enough antibiotics to clear Paris Hilton of any and all infections.
You’ve been a worthy rival, beloved pest. I respect your strategic mind and tenacity. You deserve more than this slow decline, like your own National Geographic segment or a Fringe spinoff. Sadly, it must end here. Please don’t go dormant or morph into a plague. Accept defeat with the same strength and dignity with which you assaulted the lower half of my visage. As Juliet said, Parting is such sweet sorrow…now get the fuck off my face.