Monday, December 7, 2009

Dorian Gray

I've been lazy. Soooo lazy, I stopped my skincare regimen. Then my face fell off.

Slid down my shoulders, bounced off my boob, and almost smothered the cat.

Seriously. If my cheeks and eye bags get any lower, I'll need a little sling to carry them around in. Maybe something snazzy, like dual fanny-packs hooked to my ears. From Prada.

* sigh *

I scrub my face with rocks to remove dead skin. I have tubs o'crap to replace moisture, collagen, and remove wrinkles. I've had a dermatologist burn off brown spots and broken blood vessels from my face. If I get lazy, as I did the last few months, I look like the Picture of Dorian Gray.

Zits, however, never cut me a break. This teenage malady will continue to plague me until I'm 90. They pretend like they're behaving, then when you least expect it.... WHAMMO! They find a way to be even more disturbing than a standard blemish.

Like the red spot on my cheek. It lurked there for a week, angry and petulant. I learned long ago not to touch them, and they'll go away on their own. But it's been a WEEK now, and there was NO change until this morning.

It was ready to detonate, so I touched it. When I did, a small round pellet fell out. A ball of pellet.

I'm expecting a volcano, but get a white, mini-rabbit turd. Not only was that unsatisfying, but downright weird. Like a tiny alien laid an egg in my face.


I just really resent that at 41, there's so much maintenance. Because my metabolism has slowed to that of a three-toed sloth, just getting rid of a few pounds is a monumental task.

When I was 25, I could eat salads for a week and lose ten pounds. Now, I can work out every day of the week, eat a lettuce leaf for lunch and dinner, and lose absolutely nothing.

Maybe it's heredity. My sister, the family archivist, showed me a photo of my paternal grandmother when she was in her twenties – she looked fabulous. Then, in her late thirties, she looked like a few miles of bad road.

On the other hand, the women on my mother's side tend to hold up well. Hardy Irish stock. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Or maybe I need a potato and Guinness diet.

Guinness is good for you, right?

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