Self-Sabotage and a Cautionary Tale

So, I did something stupid. With a supreme lack of grace, I tripped and did a face-plant with an armload of firewood, giving myself a fat lip and a hint of a black eye. Wait. That's not even the stupid part.

Turns out, I make a pretty cute little boxer, but the timing of this new look is awful. As you know, I was really looking forward to meeting a particular hottie on Monday. I didn't want my face to startle him on our date, so I wrote and told him what happened. Oddly, he now says he will have to work late on Monday because he's trying to finish up a project before he leaves town for three weeks. He says he will contact me when he gets back after the new year. I'm calling bullshit. I should be grateful to learn that he is so focused on physical appearance and/or shallow before wasting any time, but damn. He was so cute.

This has nothing to do with dating, but let me entertain you with my latest middle-aged humiliation. Young ladies, take notes through your laughter. This will happen to you someday. If there is any justice in the universe, this will happen to you.

I had stepped out of the shower and was drying myself off when I noticed a dark line about an inch below my nipple. I had a mysterious breast infection a few years back and I've known too many women with breast cancer, so any anomaly in that region raises a red flag. A little investigation convinced me that this was just an ingrown hair. Yes, ladies. You have that to look forward to as you get closer to 40 - random, solitary hairs that crop up in places where hair just doesn't belong, like on your boobs.

I pulled out my trusty tweezers and was pleased that the rogue hair came right out. Success! A second look, though, revealed that the dark line was still there, that the hair I'd removed was just a decoy, laying on top of the real culprit. Removal of the second hair required me to do a bit of self-surgery. Picture, if you will, me standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror with tweezers, a needle, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a solid vow that I was NOT going to text my neighbor to come over and help me. Probably the only difference between me and Bob Geldof's Pink was an absence of shaving cream.

It took about 20 minutes, but I finally got the little bastard out, and I did not resort to drinking rubbing alcohol in frustration. The scab has already fallen off and the only trace of the whole sordid ordeal is this confession that I'm putting on the internet.

I'm a freaking catch, right?