Bonfire of Vanity

Last year, as 39 crept into the door, I purchased an internet deal on facials. No big deal. I was feeling the quiet tickle of old-age on my face. Chemical peels seemed to be the answer. One year later and I had finally got around to redeeming the specials. I hate wasting money more than age spots. Having done this before, I was looking forward to a dark room and pleasant smelling stuff on my face. At the time, it did not concern me that I had a different esthetician. Sure, it burned a little more. It was probably working. During the weekend my face went from red like a sunburn to "who drug your face behind a skateboard?" I hunkered at home like a pimply thirteen-year-old.

That Sunday, I was in charge of getting the children to sing loudly for Father's Day. No sweat, they always sing so cheerfully for me. In addition, I knew my local gathering of church goers was going to realize I was pregnant. (Yeah, did I mention I was pregnant?) This perfect storm of self-pity erupted in pathetic sobs of loathing in my bedroom. I was NOT, repeat NOT going to church. I knew it would be cowardly to not go. But, oh how angry I was at myself. I sat here crying because I was dreading leading a choir with my scab face and fertility bump. All over the world women deal with infertility, violence and poverty. Me? Funeral sobs over looking like an idiot.

Finally, I put on enough foundation to make a drag queen proud--it was difficult to not furiously scrub it off. I held my head low, ducking between my big hair. I avoided conversations all day long. It was ended by my immediate exit to the car. Yeah, who says teens are the only emotional goof balls out there?