Note to self
Dear Amanda Sue,
There is the saddest form of abuse going on right now. It is called "self-abuse," and I think we should discuss it.
Let's say it is a Thursday evening, and in your nightly inspection-of-body, you notice a tiny, microscopic white dot on your chest. This happens to be located right in the middle of your chest, where flesh lies close to bone, and there is not the cheery cushion of fat that there is elsewhere on your body. The tiny dot does not look to be full of ghastly fluids, but is just an irritated pore.
The thing to do is merely dab it with some alcohol and go to bed. Don't touch it.
Apparently, touching it leads down the path of no return. It leads to a four-day obsession.
Touching leads to squeezing it, just a little.
Then maybe poking it with a needle, and then squeezing it again.
Then putting ice on it, and rubbing a partially dissolved aspirin on it to reduce the swelling.
Then scrubbing it with your Clinque facial cream and staring at it in the mirror to see if it goes away.
Then putting Neosporin on it, and carmex too, because that has healing properties.
This will continue for three days. Every time your husband walks by the restroom, he will see you bent as close as you can to the mirror, performing some minor surgery without anesthetic. He will say "AMANDA SUE! Please STOP touching it! You are making it worse!"
By day four, it will look like some misplaced part of anatomy a la Chandler Bing (reference season 3). It is swollen and almost looks infected, despite the many doses of antibacterial-whatever that you have layered on it.
The worst thing is that, from your already limited wardrobe, you must choose some high-necked smock to wear EVERY DAY of the weekend because you don't want to scare people into thinking you have chest-leprosy. Unfortunately, not many maternity shirts are high-necked, and you only own one of them. A band-aid does not help.
So, you see, there are many reasons to not touch. Next time, just dab some alcohol on it and go to bed. I am begging you. As for now, go get an ice cube. That sucker is gettin' HUGE!
Love,
Yourself
There is the saddest form of abuse going on right now. It is called "self-abuse," and I think we should discuss it.
Let's say it is a Thursday evening, and in your nightly inspection-of-body, you notice a tiny, microscopic white dot on your chest. This happens to be located right in the middle of your chest, where flesh lies close to bone, and there is not the cheery cushion of fat that there is elsewhere on your body. The tiny dot does not look to be full of ghastly fluids, but is just an irritated pore.
The thing to do is merely dab it with some alcohol and go to bed. Don't touch it.
Apparently, touching it leads down the path of no return. It leads to a four-day obsession.
Touching leads to squeezing it, just a little.
Then maybe poking it with a needle, and then squeezing it again.
Then putting ice on it, and rubbing a partially dissolved aspirin on it to reduce the swelling.
Then scrubbing it with your Clinque facial cream and staring at it in the mirror to see if it goes away.
Then putting Neosporin on it, and carmex too, because that has healing properties.
This will continue for three days. Every time your husband walks by the restroom, he will see you bent as close as you can to the mirror, performing some minor surgery without anesthetic. He will say "AMANDA SUE! Please STOP touching it! You are making it worse!"
By day four, it will look like some misplaced part of anatomy a la Chandler Bing (reference season 3). It is swollen and almost looks infected, despite the many doses of antibacterial-whatever that you have layered on it.
The worst thing is that, from your already limited wardrobe, you must choose some high-necked smock to wear EVERY DAY of the weekend because you don't want to scare people into thinking you have chest-leprosy. Unfortunately, not many maternity shirts are high-necked, and you only own one of them. A band-aid does not help.
So, you see, there are many reasons to not touch. Next time, just dab some alcohol on it and go to bed. I am begging you. As for now, go get an ice cube. That sucker is gettin' HUGE!
Love,
Yourself
posted by Amanda
at
2:56 PM
10 Comments:
Yet another thing we can blame on Mom. Body Parts Obsessive Picking (known as Body POP).
You've probably got that thing so inflamed, even it forgot what its original intention was.
So I said to myself...SELF!
I am SO guilty of this. I know better. Unfortunately, this gets an override from the other part of the brain that commands, "pick! pick! pick!"
AS -- Sounds like an "obli" to me. (Unscramble the letters.) You remember my "obli" story, right? I don't want you to go through that.
Don't mess with it anymore!
This sounds just like your parenting tips class!
HA HA Tracey. I remember your Obli story. How could I forget??
i suffer from the same affliction, amanda sue. only, roger tells me, "Sweetie! You've been in the bathroom for an hour. It's time to STOP and COME TO BED."
jen - gross, with the acronym. yech.
t - i don't think it is an obli. but maybe! it is kind of going away.
jes and am - glad to know i am not alone.
Be thankful that this anomoly is on a part of you that you can hide with clothing... and not on your face or anything! :)
If it makes you feel any better, I didn't notice any large bumps on you at church! :)
that is because of the high-necked smock!
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home