Of pits and pores

I’m supposed to be writing my Debs piece for tomorrow on my best vacation ever, and that’s why I’m writing to you right now. Because I’m all about the double-posting and procrastination. Also, I don't remember taking a vacation. Ever. And fun? What is this 'fun' you speak of?

Last night I did a public speaking event at the Waupun Public Library (thanks Doreen and Pam!! And my awesome family members! And the awesome people who came despite not knowing me from Gunter Von Geeter!) The gig went fairly well, and I only had one nervous tic: compulsively spinning my wedding ring with my right hand. At one point, a piece of artwork fell off the wall and flipped a light switch off on its way down, which was kind of fun. Also, a chunk of hair kept trying to leap into my mouth as I talked, and I had sweatstains the size of the Larson B ice shelf.

This sweaty pit issue has plagued me since forever, and yes, frustration has driven me to actually stick pantyliners up my sleeves. Unfortunately, this little trick doesn’t work—the pads always lose their adhesive (because rivers of sweat tend to corrode even the strongest of glues) and start marching their way down your side to the tune of “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” If your shirt’s untucked, they may even leap out at an inopportune moment.

Ta-dah!! Pit period!

Tonight I purchased Secret Clinical Strength anti-perspirant, which pains me because God only knows what kind of carcinogenic paste I’m smearing on the wafer of skin protecting my lymph nodes. My innate hypochondria drives me to use the natural, hippy versions of various hygiene products whenever possible, but recently I broke down and purchased some industrial-strength faceblasting de-wrinkler made by one of the well-known cosmetics manufacturers. I recognized perhaps one ingredient in the list of chemicals on the package, but it was time to turn to the Miracle of Science because the natural herbal stuff didn’t seem to be making a dent in my face dents, so to speak.

So anyway, yes! I began to spackle my face with the Miracle of Science and turned my attention to more important concerns. Such as the purchase of yard waste bags and a new lawn mower. Then yesterday I noticed that my hippy shower gel billed itself as being “paraben and glycol free.” This was a good thing to the makers of this particular hippy shower gel, and implied that paraben and glycol are BAD NEWS. Unfortunately, the faceblasting de-wrinkler (a three-step product) was almost entirely comprised of parabens and glycols. Plus a dozen other unpronounceable chemicals that are probably also used to de-ice the wings of airplanes. I wouldn’t be surprised if my face now glows in the dark. I can probably microwave my lunch simply by holding it up to my left cheek for ten minutes.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that my faceblaster kit also contains sodium hydroxide. The exact substance that ate holes through my shirt during chem lab when we were horsing around during an experiment.

And the search for decent moisturizer that won't kill me continues ....