“Yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw a pimple. Its name is Agnes.”
—Paula Danziger, The Cat Ate My Gymsuit
Let me introduce you to Scotty, here. No, right here, on the side of my nose. Hi there.
Scotty has been loitering here for some time now. I can’t remember how long, as he was a fairly unobtrusive guest at first. Popped up overnight, he did. I thought he was just another fly-by-night from the acne family, perhaps one of its larger members. He established residence in a corner of my nose that is quite accustomed to temporary guests of that sort. Scotty did nothing to improve my appearance, but I figured I would just wait awhile for him to depart.
You never can tell how your houseguests will behave, though, whether it’s your mom and dad or the little red devils that still plague your face when you’re 35 years old. One of the big shattered myths of my life was that acne is a teenagers’ ailment. Scotty settled in nicely and it was obvious that he wasn’t any old zit, thank you very much.
I didn’t have anything personally against Scotty. I have my fair share of moles and skin tags and even small warts, although my friend Missy had told me some horror stories about warts and I finally took the plunge and went to a dermatologist to have one frozen off my big toe. Ow. (This is why I now wear yoga socks to Nia classes, but that’s another story entirely.) Lots of people have colorless moles or sebaceous cysts on the sides of their noses. I hadn’t wanted to be one of those people, though. I thought it would bring me another step closer to resembling a wicked witch. I did not want Scotty as my familiar.
I decided to consult my dermatologist about the best way to evict Scotty, when I visited her to have the warty toe thing rechecked. She froze the toe again—ow—and then I introduced her to dear Scotty, that tenacious tenant, wondering if she could help me get rid of him. Preferably without using her freezy wart gun. No big deal, I figured.
But the dermatologist did not like the looks of Scotty. She thought he was bad news on burnt toast. In fact, the dermatologist was so displeased with Scotty that she hacked off a large chunk of his little self to uncover his true identity. I almost felt sorry for the thing, but I was too surprised at the idea that he wasn’t as benign as I had assumed. And … ow. At least the partial decimation of Scotty made me forget entirely about the toe thing.
I spent a week pampering poor injured Scotty and wondering exactly who this mysterious invader was. Scotty received lots of love and cleaning and all the Polysporin anyone might ever want. I even tried to find some cute Spongebob bandages for him, but apparently they don’t make Spongebob bandages in that small round size. Too bad.
A week later, the dermatologist called to confirm that Scotty was a no-good little bastard and to hammer out a plan of action for terminating him, permanently, with no chance of return visits. She sent me to another doctor who specializes in removing all traces of nasty squatters like Scotty in places where cosmetic issues are a factor (like my adorable nose). I called the doctor’s office and we set a date for next Thursday. We’ll teach Scotty and his friends not to lurk chez Jette anymore.
So that’s why I can’t plan to see any movies next weekend, or late next week. My parents will be celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary at a fancy resort hotel, a passel of journallers will be whooping it up at JournalCon in DC, and I’ll be recovering from the loss of little Scotty, that wolf in zit’s clothing. Well, not a wolf so much as a lazy hound, I guess.
It shouldn’t be hard to get over the loss, as my boyfriend has promised that I will get to have a Pretty Princess weekend, where I lounge in bed and on the sofa and he does my bidding. How often does something like that get to happen? I will try very hard not to take advantage of the situation.
I don’t want any sympathy about the saga of Scotty, which is why I’m writing about him in such a lighthearted way. I don’t want to hear anyone else’s stories about their own run-ins with similar squatters. None of that makes me feel any better, it just reminds me of the situation and makes me feel anxious and upset. It’s better for me to gaily announce the imminent departure of Scotty, a naughty nuisance with a cute name, than to pour out my nervousness over dealing with situations that have names I feel are more serious than the situation actually warrants, scary-sounding terms like “biopsy” and “malignant” and “squamous cell carcinoma” and the big C. It’s only a little c minor, in any case.
Some close friends whom I consulted claimed that I could not write about this without its sounding dramatic, and in need of sympathy, and generating well-intentioned but unwanted response. I wanted to write about it on some level, though, so I took this as a challenge. Please prove to me that I succeeded.
“Vera said, ‘Why do you feel you have to turn everything into a story?’
“So I told her why:
“Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
“Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
“Because if I tell the story, it doesn’t hurt as much.
“Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.”
—Nora Ephron, Heartburn