I'm Afraid This Isn't Your Week, Dear

You know, it happens.  You’re all probably young enough that it hasn’t happened to you yet, but wait.  It will.  You’ll have it too, one day.

That morning you look into the mirror and say, “Ye Gods.  That isn’t me.”

My week began, along with all the crap with the “new system” at TheCompanyIWorkFor, with my smacking my face on a wire auxiliary rack at the convenience store.  And OK, no black eye, no swollen socket, but it certainly didn’t make me feel like Miss America, either.

I’ve been running late every morning this week.  So much so that Monday and Tuesday I didn’t have time to straighten my hair.  As you know, on a good day when my hair is left to its own devices it curls.  And curls and curls, but it’s halfway manageable, I can run my fingers through it a couple of times, or put in a headband, or clip it up in the back, and it almost looks like hair.  Almost.

But there must have been more humidity around than usual this week, because in those two “free hair” days, my curls were so tight that even finger-combing didn’t loosen them.  And so my hairstyle for those days became something of a tightly-packed afro, clinging about a half-inch high closely to my skull, except for the fact that my haircuts keep being postponed so it’s quite long in the back, and my tightly-packed ‘fro had in reality become a tightly-packed ‘fro mullet.  Not one of your better coifs, to be sure.

But Wednesday was the day it happened.  I actually had time to work on straightening my hair and therefore looking like a true upright Citizen of the World, but when I ambled into the bathroom to brush my teeth, newly full of Orange Crapius drink, I flipped on the light and caught sight of myself in the mirror.  I jumped back with a start, uttering a sound that was, well, if I can try to recreate it, something like, “Aaa!Ahhheeewwwwwwww.”  Then I said it.  “Ye Gods. That isn’t me.”  Followed by something like, “I mean, holy shit.  What has happened to me, and when did it occur?”

The hair, soon to be relatively normal-looking, was still wet, curly, and beginning to frizz.  My eyes were red. My skin was – well, you know those commercials where they keep talking about “combination skin?”  Half of my face was dry enough that it looked scaly. The other half was a quagmire of oiliness.  I had dark circles under my eyes.  And yet….

And yet, I’ve seen all that before.  It was like yesterday morning, my face wasn’t – well, it wasn’t mine.  It had a different shape.  It was puffy, and not colored like mine, and my eyes were set too far in.  Or maybe not far enough in.  I don’t know, whatever they were, they weren’t right.  Someone had moved my eyes while I wasn’t looking, and I didn’t know how to get them back where they once had been.

Maybe it’s all bad nutrition.  Or not enough sleep.  Or too much caffeine.  Or – well, you know.  Old age.  

Maybe I just woke up yesterday morning and realized that all of a sudden I got old.  I don’t know.

All I do know is that I soldiered on and straightened my hair, put on a nice new shirt, and got on with my day.  And it wasn’t a bad day save for the fact that I spent a good deal of it thinking about how horrible I look lately.  I went on to Community Band last night, and believe it or not (and maybe the moon has passed whatever phase it was in over the weekend) I played pretty well.  I paid under $2.00 a gallon for gas, got a nice coffee for the trip home, and made it to bed by midnight.

Then I woke up this morning and went to face myself in the mirror.  And much to my surprise, saw pretty much my regular old face looking back at me, with one exception.  I had a whopping big pimple.  Right on my nose.  Right on the tip of my nose.  It couldn’t have been better placed had I been sent from Central Casting to play a witch.

And so I thought, “Well.  That’s nice.  Now what?”  I contemplated going back to bed, but that wasn’t really viable.  Then I started wondering what other famous folk would have done in the same situation.

Amber Von Tussle from the movie “Hairspray” would have gotten her mom (Deborah Harry, no less) to pop it.  That wasn’t really an option for me.

Laurie Partridge would have gone to school, spending the day in a funk with her hand covering her nose.

Lindsay Weir from “Freaks and Geeks” would have gone to school, too, where she would have been made fun of by her Freak friends, especially Kim Kelly, who would spend the day wondering aloud how the perfect Lindsay got a pimple.

Mary Ann would have gotten The Professor to concoct a special pimple-removing cream.  Which Gilligan would have mistakenly used, after which hilarity would ensue.

Laura Petrie would have looked in the mirror and cried, “Ohhhh, Rob!”

Marcia Brady would have gone to school with her hair combed over her nose.

Jan Brady would have found a way to blame Marcia.

Cindy Brady would have just acted like the baby she is.

Laura Ingalls would have called the family together to show them, where they would immediately look skyward and weep.

Cher Horowitz from “Clueless” would have chosen a wardrobe so spectacular that no one would ever notice the fact that she had a pimple on her nose.  And her dad would find someone to sue for it.

Opie Taylor would have a heart-to-heart talk with Andy about how pimples build character.

In the end, I went my own way.  Lots of makeup.

On the plus side, though, I pulled out a nice warm shirt to protect me from the 20-degree weather of today (it actually went from 70 to 29 degrees here yesterday), only to find that it was way too big.  I wore it anyway.  It felt good and comfy.  And big.

And I got the afternoon off.  That never hurts.

So on to Friday.

Betland’s Olympic Update:
*While I was driving around this afternoon, I noticed a folded up newspaper clipping lodged into my sun visor.  I got it out and looked at it, while I was driving, and noticed it was an obituary. Of someone I’d never heard of.  As I read through it, I realized why I kept it.  So I could tell you about it here!  And so I will.  Seems Our Deceased was survived by (I’m skipping names here) a wife, one son, one son’s wife, one daughter, one daughter’s companion, two grandsons, three brothers, all wifed, four sisters, three of which were husbaned…”and his special cat, Butthead.”  Some things just don’t need to be in the paper.
* I’m trying something new tonight, which my web-maven Stennie told me about. It’s a new feature where you can publish your blog right from Microsoft Word.  I don’t know whether or not I like it yet. If anything weird shows up for anyone (besides the pop-ups, which, believe me folks, I hate and I’m getting them myself), please let me know.  Even though I may not choose to use the feature anyway.