And by stars, I mean pimples.
Which are not sexy.
Not at all.
Some of you may remember this Facebook post from a few months back.
Yes, it was that bad.
Think I’m exaggerating?
Read on, my friend.
Part 1: Originally drafted on September 15, 2011
Guess where I am right now.
Go ahead. Guess.
For those of you who just muttered “The SeaTac Airport?”, congratulations! You’ve just won a detailed timeline of “Pimplegate 2011″!
For those of you who guessed “Sitting on your sofa shopping for 3-inch magenta suede booties?”, you also win. Were it not for this weekend’s travel plans, you probably would have been right.
And for those of you who assumed I was watching Extreme Couponing while eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and wearing pink bedazzled sweatpants…I am happy to say that you are dead wrong.
Anyone who knows me understands that I only wear my pink bedazzled sweatpants for very special occasions. And by special occasions I mean anything featuring Ryan Gossling or Bethany Frankel.
And don’t worry, I still have mad love for Extreme Couponing…It’s just that I only watch it while eating Hipster Pizza, and never Peanut Butter Cups. I’m not one to mix business with pleasure.
But, because I feel like over sharing today (and pretty much every day, to be honest), those of you who guessed wrong still win the detailed account of my pizza forehead.
I’m sure you are giddy with anticipation.
And for the record, it was just a regular pizza forehead, not a hipster pizza forehead. I wish my acne was that cool.
So, why am I at the airport? I’m on a red-eye flight to NYC in approximately forty-five minutes so that I might attend a good friend’s wedding in Connecticut tomorrow evening.
Did I also mention that one of those friends happens to be College Humor celebrity, Streeter Seidell? That’s right, I’m going to the Phantom of the Office’s wedding. He also happens to be a very cool guy, and I can’t wait to see him and my good friend Vanessa tie the knot tomorrow night.
Well…I suppose I could wait just a few extra days. You know, so that my crazy super hero mask made entirely of blemishes has time to clear up and all.
As Streeter is somewhat famous, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m going run into some celebrities at this wedding.
Brangelina, to be specific.
I did some calculations, and the outcome isn’t looking good.
Angie + her litter of 6 children + lots of crying at the sight of my pizza face = not a good time2.
Correction. Not a good time3.
I have since decided to take matters into my own hands. Which may actually be making things worse.
Shocking, I know.
Here’s how it’s all gone down…
Saturday, September 10th
Arrive via new birthday bicycle, at favorite nail salon in Magnolia. Sit gingerly in the massage chair, dip feet into heated tub, and congratulate myself for not crashing bicycle while pedaling like a maniac over the treacherous Ballard Bridge.
Crazy unibrow girl walks into salon. Owner takes her to the back room. Unibrow girl emerges 10 minutes later with beautifully groomed eyebrows. I decide that I too want perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Fifteen minutes and eight dollars later, I leave the waxing room with eyebrows that don’t look all that different. Probably because my super Norwegian blonde eyebrows are practically invisible without makeup in the first place. Realize I probably didn’t need the service, but shrug it off as it was only a few bucks.
Monday, September 12th
Realize I desperately need a bathroom break. Gasp upon entering restroom and looking in mirror to discover small shiny bumps all across my forehead. But only on the skin an inch or so above my eyebrows. Hmmm.
Wednesday, September 14th
Brush hair out of eyes during a meeting, notice that forehead feels unusually bumpy. Rush to bathroom and discover that World War 3 has broken out across my face. But, again, only on the skin directly above my eyebrows. Interesting. Panic upon realizing it kind of looks like my pimples are creating the McDonalds golden arches. I’m not lovin’ it.
Frantically search Google. Discover that waxing can indeed cause breakouts of epic proportions. Stumble across this page, which offers a remedy that, according to user comments, is quite effective.
Realize that as I haven’t had acne since I was seventeen, I don’t have any supplies to execute the above technique. Decide to venture into the murky depths of the Auburn Super Walmart after work. Time will be tight as I have a hair appointment scheduled in less than an hour.
Finally arrive at Super Walmart after aimlessly wandering around Auburn like lost puppy for ten minutes. Decide that Auburn is the most confusing town to navigate. Ever. Also decide I should probably snap a photo of Pimplegate for journalistic reasons.
Warning, the image you are about to see is graphic, unedited, and generally quite upsetting. I’d recommend you don’t scroll any further if you’re in the middle of eating something.
I think this takes the cake for the most embarrassing photo I’ve ever posted of myself on the interweb. Although this one is definitely a close second.
But back to the matter at hand…
Rush to frozen vegetables aisle with hands full of acne products intended for oily-faced teeny-boppers. Decide vegetables that are Fergie and Will-I-Am approved will be most effective, and select a bag of frozen black-eyed peas for cold compress.
Purchase my laundry list of emergency skin care and frozen vegetables.
Quickly realize I’m running out of time. Must wash face. Now.
Reluctantly enter Walmart restroom, where I proceed to wash my face as a murmuring crowd of shoppers in Looney Tunes t-shirts look on. Try to document experience with iPhone camera, but am stopped by woman with mullet who thinks I am trying to take a picture of her using toilet. Am informed by same woman that washing face in public is nasty.
As if I didn’t realize.
Leave Walmart bathroom feeling extremely humbled. Snap photo of forehead in car while man on motorcycle parked across from me laughs hysterically at my expense. Yell something out the window about liking to see him get his eyebrows waxed.
More laughing and revving of engine on his part.
More humbling on my part.
Drive to Renton for hair appointment while holding black-eyed peas to forehead and ignoring crazy looks from other drivers. Changing lanes is difficult. Seeing humor and irony in the fact that “My Humps” is playing on the radio? Also difficult.
Arrive at hair salon with bright red, tingley face. Apologize profusely for lateness and explain skin crisis. Rush to bathroom where I wash my face a second time and apply the strongest acne medication a Costco AMEX card can buy.
Try to relax during full foil and trim. Instruct stylist to cut my bangs shorter than usual in order to hide the “golden arches”, which seem to be growing redder by the
Arrive home, and repeat process once more. Vow to never wash face in public again.
Awake in a cold sweat from nightmare where Fergie is my dermatologist. Let’s just say her bedside manner is even worse than her singing voice.
Twelve hours (and four wash-and-repeats later) I find myself here at the airport, my forehead looking similar to one of those rejected gourds you see at a pumpkin patch.
To make matters worse, I have decided the only thing that could possibly be worse than showing up with the complexion of a sixteen-year-old is showing up with the complexion of a pale sixteen-year-old, and have slathered myself in a thick coat of tinted spray tan, which literally makes me look like the bumpy gourd pictured above not only in texture, but also in color.
Perhaps this is why Scott doesn’t seem too concerned that we won’t be sitting next to each other on the flight?
Here’s hoping a miracle occurs in the next 24 hours.
Part 2: November 13, 2011
There was no miracle.
There was, however, an epiphany.
The world does not revolve around me. And it certainly does not revolve around my forehead.
This day was not about me looking like I had stepped out of a Clean and Clear commercial.
This day was about Streeter and Vanessa.
I quickly forgot about my face, and moved onto more important ventures. Such as finding the dance move that would most effectively accentuate my freakishly double jointed elbows.
In fact, I had pretty much completely forgotten about Pimplegate 2011 until dinner last Monday night.
My ever-so-sweet husband had decided to have supper waiting for me when I came home from the gym. The scent of creamy chicken and rice casserole greeted me at our door as I stepped in from the rain. A hot plate of comfort food was just what I needed after an exhausting day at the office, followed by an intense 60-minute workout.
To put it bluntly, I was ready to eat my weight in casserole.
Until I saw it.
Something didn’t look right.
Something was off.
“Scott — did you, umm, add something to this? It looks different than usual…”
“Nope. It’s just chicken, rice and cream of mushroom soup.”
“Oh, ummmmm….ok. But then what are these weird black things on it?”
“Huh? Black things? Oh, yeah, you’re right. I did add something extra. We had this random bag of black-eyed peas in the freezer that I thought we should probably use up, so I threw them in there. I have no idea where they came from.”
Oh, but I do.
And that’s how my Monday evening dinner quickly morphed into some yogurt and a protein bar.
I just couldn’t bring myself to eat the chicken casserole.
As the Black Eyed Peas so eloquently put it, “Them chickens jackin’ my style.”
All that to say, it’s two months later, and I’m finally ready to talk about it.
But I am most certainly not ready to eat it.