Perfect Skin

Ugh. I'm up a few pounds. Three to be exact. But my fat % is way down, and my net fat is thus still down from last week so I suspect the Rickshaw driver is coming and I'm just loaded with water bloat.

Numbers: 219 (uggghghghghghg!!!!), fat percentage 44%. Normally these numbers would really bum me out, but I've got bigger fish to fry. In fact, I'm having a crisis.

This Saturday I have a photo and video shoot for this photography gallery show I'm doing with some local photographic artists. Fat? Nothing a black turtleneck and a omniprescent stare into the camera can't solve. Hair? I'm getting this cut and color I desperately need later in the day (I know, why not before? Because scheduling on both the videographer's and my hairdresser's parts conspired for this not to be) but nothing I can't correct with a scarf or well-chosen millinery.

But yesterday, I felt something hurting on my cheek. It's a zit. A giant, freaking, cystic zit. Not on my forehead, where I can cover it with the aforementioned scarf or hat. No, its on my cheek. On my good side. I've never had a zit there. NEVER. And it's not any old zit. It's huge, and its red. It looks like the button the president pushes to start World War III.
I know, I lead a charmed life if having a zit before a photo session is a crisis. But here's the thing. Look, I've always thought I was fat, even when I wasn't fat. But I do have some things I feel good and attractive and beautiful about, and the big one is that I've always, ALWAYS had perfect skin. PERFECT SKIN, people. Facials are a luxury for me, not a necessity. I don't even know how to pronounce "dermatologist." I have a mole, yes, but its right on that part of my face where Cindy Crawford and Marilyn's is, so a touch of red lipstick and the mole only accentuates via contrast just how perfect, my skin is. The Aveda blemish lotion that normally clears up these things isn't working. So what if I put on a few pounds this week? I'm headed for a photo shoot this weekend and I don't have perfect skin. Look how this is getting to me. I'm going overboard with the italics. Short of sitting in the steam room at the Y, what's a girl to do?


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