I’m having an absolutely horrendous fucking face day.
My face is a source of embarrassment and humiliation today. I feel as if I’m walking around with a toad growing out my right cheek. That’s how I feel. Today.
It started first thing in the morning when I looked in the mirror. Illusion, percception, who the hell knows, but my face looked like a shambles. Swollen, puffy, asymmetrical, oh god what a sight to behold at 5:35 a.m. Half a fucking sleep because I went to bed too late.
Sets the tone, you know?
Some people have bad hair days (and that is actually part and parcel of the bullshit I endured today), but these are those days I can call bad face days.
Damn it all.
And the worse I feel about myself, the worse the reactions I elicit from women. I’m convinced that if there is even the slightest hint of unsureness about my appearance stirring within my soul, I will wear that shit on my sleeve, and women, with their renowned powerful mood scoopers, will sense it and reflect my own self-directed attitude back at me. In fact, this evening I needed to stop at the shitty little ghetto supermarket to buy some sad-looking veggies and the cashier was an older lady, not bad-looking, but no great shakes either, and I swear she looked at me sternly like a 1st grade schoolmarm might look at a really hapless future short-bus-riding delinquent. When she gave me my change she didn’t even honor me with a glance. Nope, she moved on to the next customer (who she incidentally greeted with a como estas?, unlike me who got only the stern patrician stare). Thank god it was late and I could call this the last nail in my self-esteem coffin for November 15, 2010.
I have no idea what the source of this hangup/compulsion/psychosis is. I’ve been stricken as long as I can remember. The difference is that now, at my age, I really don’t care in the respect that I can joke about it, make light of it on my damn blog, laugh and take solace in the fact that I’ll probably feel better tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe even next week. Maturity has exposed me to the ravages of reality and I can now plan my failings ahead of time. I’m a long-term depressive. But when I was younger and less “mature,” this would get to me; the garish sense of physical self-esteem would burrow its way into my head and totally fuck with me. If I had a day like I did today, but 25 years ago, I would not find the least bit of energy or motivation to write anything or better yet, to make a comedic display of it.
Yes, I had, and have, Ugly Days. Days I wish I could leave this face at home.
Dejection and dour apprehension follow alongside me all day long and I anticipate disinterested reactions from women before they even happen. I fixate on the mirror. I find every reason to go to the bathroom and examine my face and its incredible sense of hideous detail.
Yet, I can look at the same face one day later and be “pleased” (which is perhaps a strong word)…maybe “satisfied”…or, let’s say “at peace with.” Yes, notice the cascading sense of self-appraisal? I’m realistic about myself but during my Bad Face days, all sense of perspective is thrown violently off kilter and it sinks to the point where there is no longer perspective. Just harsh despondency.
I rarely go out, I have traces of a social life, so I don’t take much stock in my face any longer and thus, I’m not prone to surrendering to depression just because I don’t believe some middle-aged supermarket cashier looked at me in a way which would suitably validate my own sense of attractiveness (or lack thereof).
Still, my face is a valuable non-asset.
In the typical manner whenever these spells strike, I find I take snapshots of myself, as if to freeze in time that inconsolable lost sense of self; I might be able to contain the frame of mind. Prepare to recognize it, perhaps? I took this earlier as I was getting out of my car. It’s sorta angelic but satanic. Dark angel, lord of death kinda stuff.
What mother couldn’t love this?