Vive les boutons!

Like my self-esteem needed ANOTHER hit. But there it was...epidermically-deep...announcing its arrival with an angry eruption that swiftly spread across the formally smooth frontier of my face. Really? I'm 49 years old. My hips hurt if I'm in the car for over a half hour. It takes five 4th graders to pry me from my prone position on our Class Meeting Carpet.  I can't ingest caffeine after five. I'm in bed each night by nine. I should be past the panic of pre-pubescent pimples. But no...there it was...large enough to qualify for its own zip-code. 

I considered calling into work but didn't have the energy to devote four hours to developing suitable sub-plans. Apparently all the blood in my body had been re-routed to my blemish, leaving me in a weak and vulnerable state. I quietly considered my options. As a natural beauty, I don't even OWN make-up. I considered using a marker to add freckles to my face...a tree in the forest gambit, if you will. A Flamenco dance fan seemed like a good idea if I could somehow incorporate basic movements such as the Marcaje into a plausible lesson but I couldn't distribute my weight properly or keep a steady rhythm so that was out. I worried that a veil might be interpreted as too political. Ironically, I can't breathe in a respiratory mask. Could I maybe pass off my pimple as a beauty mark à la Marilyn? No...even I'm not that good an actress.  So I plastered a postie-note to my face and headed off to work.

But adhesive only lasts so long and, abracadabra, like the rabbit in the hat, my acne appeared. My audience was astonished. "A little cover-up would take care of that, Mrs. Mosiman," my football player advised. I snarled at him before launching into my impromptu lesson about the importance of owning one's own flaws and foibles. "It happens to everyone," I warned. "Picture Day and BOOM! The Unicorn! (The right-between-the-eyes eruption). First date and WHAM-O! The Rudolph! (End-of-the-nose). People are going to look anyway. But let them look on YOUR terms. OWN it! Avoid the secretive glances. Point it out and say, "Can you believe this ^%$*?" (Side-note:  I didn't actually say ^%$*.). What will result will be commiseration. Personal anecdotes. Reassurance. The occasional unwanted advice." I paused, victorious, my pimple pulsing to the beating of my righteous heart. Cue the wide flag-waving that concluded Les Misérables. We re-wrote the lyrics, singing, "Do you hear my pimple sing?" and vowed never to be subjugated to the shame accompanied by skin inflammation. Vive les boutons!

("Amy, sweetheart," a French-speaking friend corrected me gently, "You do know that bouton means button, right?"  I squealed with delight! Now there's a game-changer! Imagine a world where pimples were called face-buttons?!?! How adorable!)