Bride of Frankenstein

I recently had to get something ugly removed from my face. No, not the surly expression I occasionally get when I have to stay late at work. It was just one of those souvenirs from my youth when I slathered myself with baby oil and baked in the sun. I seem to be prone to them and I usually take it in stride.

But this time is different. I have stitches running down from my nose to my upper lip and then across my lip into my mouth. All I can say it ouch! For the first two days I had to drink from a bendy straw and cut my food into teeny tiny bites just so I could eat. The swelling goes down every day and today I was able to give someone I like a lot a quick kiss. I can almost smile. Laughing is pretty much impossible.

In order to make this more bearable, I’ve told different stories when asked what the hell had happened to my face. I told some people that I’d been in a bar fight but they didn’t look convinced. I’ve told others that tenors are mean and to be avoided at all costs. My dermatologist is a tenor in my choir. He thought it was pretty funny. Today at work I blamed it on my assistant manager.  At least she has a good sense of humor. Mostly I told the truth without getting into details.

At this point, I’m bored with the whole thing. The fun is gone and I’m sick of explaining why I look like a mad scientist’s experiment gone wrong.  The stitches come out on Thursday and I will be mightily relieved.   Maybe the next time (I’m sure there will be one) I’ll get an eye patch and pretend I’m a pirate. Yo ho ho and all that.

About Julie Brandon

60ish poet/playwright/blogger living near the Windy City
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