You know that joke about toddlers, yoga pants and drunk people telling the truth? That joke should have included gym mirrors.
I spent most of my time at the gym looking at my skin. Is it supposed to fall like this? Is it gravity? Are big pores a sign of cancer? What is the difference between a freckle and an age spot? OMG all these age spots are cancer...
Whatever. My skin needed some attention.
I thought I had a pretty great routine going at home. But that schedule was definitely altered for the nights I fell asleep in a face covered in make-up and environmental toxins while watching Parks and Rec. Is drool good for skin texture? If so, I'll be fine. I moisturize, exfoliate, derma plane, and stare at my skin in my magnifying mirror just PRAYING it gets better. But clearly, I could use a little professional help, so I booked a series of facials to get me on track.
Day of, I arrived and filled out the IRS style paperwork required to let a stranger touch your face. Seriously, is my "wind exposure" germane to rubbing lotion on my face? Probably. Paperwork complete, I waited for the tech to come begin the transformation of my skin into that of a newborn.
Which was MORE likely than I knew. This tech was 15-months pregnant. Which was fine. It was ok. This was just going to be a lot more physics than I anticipated.
She took me back to the room and we talked more about my skin. Seriously, who as a child was like "No, playdoh is fun, but what I really love to get my hands in is skin." We got a game plan and she turned down the lights and turned up the Enya and got after it.
Basic steps to begin; moving my cheeks up and down and pulling my chin up toward my forehead. But then she got to moving my neck around like a chiropractor. I am serious. At one point, I think I heard a pop. She kept moving and manipulating my face and head and spine and I was scared... and a little dizzy.
If you know me at all, you know that I am HORRIBLE at verbal directions. If you say "Katie, move to your left" I will almost ALWAYS move up and diagonal. I cannot process verbal instructions. Which is something I wish this tech had known when she said "Ok, now turn to your right." Which I did. In my mind. What I did with my body was completely face plant into her baby belly.
What is the penalty for hitting a fetus? Jail time? Some kind of registry? I apologized profusely, but if I am being honest, I just don't know that you can come back from that. She assured me it was ok, but was it? I lie back down on the table trying to redeem myself, trying to educate myself on my skin and just relax...OMG, I hit a baby belly.
Relaxation was futile, because next she began to cover my face in what I can only assume was battery acid. With little to no warning, probably as a punishment for head butting her unborn child, she was just rubbing in something that smelled like varnish, a funeral home, the outskirts of Gary, Indiana and was that strawberry? Is this edible? It stung, HARD and more sensitive the area of my face, the more it stung me to my core. So when we got to my upper lip, between my nose, it stung so badly I involuntarily lurched off the table.
I hit her in the bump again.
So, you add that to the previous hit and I am going to jail for a long time. And stuck in jail with beautiful skin none of my friends will ever see.
Here we go again with the apology tour and she keeps saying it's ok. It happens, she tells me, more than not. While we are waiting on the battery acid to burn off all my skin, she tells me she is going to give me an arm and shoulder massage. Great. I can't screw this up. She encourages me to just relax which is probably what they said to Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight before they burned off his face with acid, too. I am relaxing, I am relaxing and she is rubbing my arm....kind of close to my armpit.... and I go to tell her how ticklish I am.... reflexes take over and my arm hits her. In the boob.
For those of you keeping track at home, that is 2 hits on her unborn child and a boob punch.
WHO AM I?!?!? Have I always been this awkward? Why wasn't any of this on the mountain of paperwork? "Are you ticklish? Are you super weird around professionals? Have you ever punched a baby on accident?" THAT IS YOUR SCREENER.
This consummate professional, who has endured my insane wrath now THRICE, casually tells me she is going to remove the acid/cement mix on my face and give me some moisturizer. This seems like a really kind way of saying "I am going to finish you up so I can get you the hell out of here." It was a blessing. She wiped and wiped and when she turned her back, I quickly wiggled my face muscles to make sure all my skin was still there. It seemed like it. I would need to double check in a mirror, but I thought I was still whole. She came back and put on the best moisturizer on the planet and said "Your skin is going to be as soft as a baby's butt."
Weird, but since I had accidentally started a fight club with her baby, I let it go.
Finally, she explained we were done and and she would leave while I got dressed and we could meet in the lobby. She told me to be sure to relax for a minute and just enjoy the quiet. Which she said the exact same way my Mom used to encourage me to "Sit here and think about my actions."
I was lying in the quiet and recounting all the stupid things I had done in the shortest/longest 45-minutes in recorded human history when I was suddenly super aware that the room was spinning. I had been in this room with all these chemicals and potions and I was acutely mindful that it smelled terrible and strong and was probably taking the age spots off my eyeballs at this point. I needed fresh air and I needed it fast. My eyes were watering and my stomach was queasy and THOSE are the last two coherent thoughts I had.
The next thought I had was "What is that banging? "
OMG. It was her. On the door. I was slumped on the floor with my pants on, but my sweatshirt kind of just over my wrists. Where I had put my hands over my head, I had a blood rush and I went down HARD. Which she had heard from the lobby. She was knocking and shouting "Katie... are you ok? Do you need help?" No. I am just a grown woman who came to get a facial and punched your baby, you and fell into the wall of your business. I should be fine.
When we finally met eyes again, I apologized. Again. Sincerely and profusely for all my awkwardness. She was a saint and told me it was fine. I paid, tipping her like a I get a paycheck from Bravo and went to leave. The final act of my performance was to try to go out the locked door. Seriously what was this place?!?!?! So I didi that whole song and dance of "Helps if you go out the right door!" I am sure critics everywhere would give the performance 4-stars.
Instead of booking the next 3 in the series of facials I bought, I think I will wait until her baby goes to middle school. I am sure a judge would agree with me.
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