scenario: upon waking this morning, and taking a shower, one finds a zit the proportion of mount vesuvius gracing the tip of one's nose. does one?:
a) mess with it, while mouth-breathing heavily on the bathroom mirror [preliminary findings. yes, i know it's a nasty and counterproductive habit. see footnote below on history of this perversion]
b) apply liberal amounts of foundation/concealer in futile attempt to mask the now raging beast [preliminary findings: there's perhaps nothing that draws more attention to such disfigurement than the caking of cosmetic]
c) apply light blush to each cheek in attempt to perhaps balance out redness that occupies middle of face and therefore carry off "sunkissed" look. [preliminary findings: yeah, that'll work]
d) upon arriving at workplace, conduct conversations while looking down, or masking offending item with "wow-the-bridge-of-my-nose-really-needs-a-light-rubbing-right-now" gesture. [preliminary findings. interesting. this gesture can actually incite the respondent to participate in same motion, under false assumption that there is something on his/her face. whether this is a posivitive or negative attribute in this study is yet to be determined]
e) own it. in wild attempt to dispell the elephant in the room, and to convey humorous sense of self-deprecation, exhort to co-workers "just LOOK at this zit on my nose. LOOK at it! no, really LOOK at it.... Sheesh (laughs jovially) I'm 35. WHen's puberty done. HA HA HA HA! HAhahahahaha..." then skulk back to one's office to continue the day, knowing that people will not be saying "do you think joy know's there's a *thing* on her nose?"
[preliminary findings: to be determined]
1. in this propensity for self-mutilation, i, of course, blame my mother. (she, in turn, blames hers--and quite rightfully so, Nana). imagine the terror of teenage years, when your mother would catch a glimpse of that eruption on your chin/nose/shoulder. the glint in her eye meant you'd had it. you attempt to flee, to shrill "it's baaad for them, Mum!" but before you know it, you're wedged up against the kitchen cabinets squawking for your life. Upon completion, she says in (fake) soothing voice "thaaaat's it.. there you go, love. doesn't that feel better???" and you scutter away to nurse your throbbing wounds.
and here's the tragic part. fast forward a few more years, and you find yourself, having internalized the perversion, watching in horrified, gleeful repulsion as she literally knees your younger brother in the small of the back so she can steady him for her task.