How ‘ya doing scruffy face?
Zen-Den said this to me as he was walking into the kitchen from the garage after getting home from work. Because I had my back to him while standing at the stove cooking ye olde supper, he couldn’t see my face.
Domesticity, we got it.
Anyhoo, while you might think this is going to be a tale about another gushy nickname, he was being literal. There was no Chickiedoodle cuteness involved in this salutation.
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You see, somehow, probably while out in the forest primeval behind the house doing the fall clean-up, I got a rash on my face.
And somehow, probably by using one of the aesthetician-approved fancy Vitamin C serums that are all the rage, I exacerbated the rash.
And somehow, probably by not backing down on my doctor-prescribed retinoid, I managed to destroy my face. Well, not literally, but my face got all red and flaky and itchy and beyond not good– straight to ugly.
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So there I was cooking, not looking my best nor happy about it, still feeling a twinge of self-pity, when Mr. Hilaremoose wanders into the house. And you know what?
His ridiculous way of saying “hello” to me, even before he saw my ratty face, cheered me up instantly.
Didn’t do a thing to reduce the inflammation, but made me realize how inconsequential it is to worry about that. which. just. happens.
Laugh it off, move along.