|Every time I go to get a facial, the crazy skin lady tells me how I have to stay out of the sun to avoid sun damage. She makes it sound like the sun is poison and talks me into a bunch of crazy products to protect my skin out of guilt. I feel like the facials are good for my complexion, but she is making me nuts! Now I’m paranoid to go outside. – Mel|
I appreciate the 30 minutes of peace I spend in your darkened room listening to Enya with wet cotton balls on my eyes.
I like how you slough away my dead skin cells. I can even deal with the fact that you collect and knit them into leather chaps for indigent cowboys. Yes, I found your Etsy shop.
But I refuse to let you make me feel like a monster for showing myself during the light of day. I’m not a vampire. Which isn’t to say I’m “Team Jacob.” I just don’t think you should make me feel like I’m going to turn to ash retrieving my morning paper.
I bought the sunblock you suggested, the one more expensive per ounce that printer ink. But it isn’t so much a “lotion” as it is “Spackle.” I don’t have an hour to rub it into my cheeks, only to arrive at work with the rosy glow of a week-old cadaver. I’m tired of the mail lady stopping at my cubicle to check my pulse. Her hands are clammy and she smells like cats. And we’ve been asked not to encourage her amateur medical career ever since she brought in that “office defibrillator.” It isn’t a bad idea to have a defibrillator in the office, but I’m pretty sure two coffee warmers wired to a laptop battery won’t work.
Floppy hats make me look like an aging southern bag lady. Cutting eye holes into a refrigerator box and wearing it over my head is impractical, even if it saves me hundreds on date clothing.
Short of finding a cream that is actually comprised of a million tiny sun warriors armed with mirror shields forming a phalanx across my face, I don’t see you ever being happy. So, I ask you, please back off ,Vampira, before your guilt trips scare me away forever. Some people actually think freckles are cute.
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