SOS, Please, Someone Help Me, It's Not Healthy

I know, I know. I've been MIA. Although it's not because I'm sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs (though does anyone actually "twiddle" their thumbs? Don't people just sit on the couch and watch bad reality TV or maybe consume too many hot buttered rums while lazily paging through year-old wedding magazines?). Anyway, I have been doing no such things. In fact, it has been quite the opposite.

I have been so busy, I haven't had a moment to complain. Well, on my blog, anyway. I had my first dress fitting (and yes, got a proper bra, complete with groping - but that's another story for another day), created my wedding program, sent out my invites, worked on the out-of-town bags, designed and purchased my rehearsal dinner invites, and no joke, that's not the half of it (and no the other half doesn't include holding down a full time job, because really, my office serves solely as a vestibule to hold all of my wedding projects at this point).

Anyway, this all began because I woke up one morning and I decided that I am done with planning this wedding and that all must be finished so I can go about living my life like a layperson (i.e., one who is not shrouded in alleged pre-nuptial bliss). Thus, I have now commenced Operation Wedding Overdrive (OWO - not to be confused with EVOO, as touted by her perkiness herself, Ms. Rachel Ray, a.k.a. my nemesis (and no, she doesn't technically know she's my arch enemy, but that's because she is so busy being so...smiley. I think my perfect day might start with a Bloody Mary and end with watching Rachel Ray cry hot sad tears because her magazine has folded.).)

But what finally drew me back to the blogosphere amidst the madness of OWO, you might ask?

Well, my wedding shower is in two days.

And of course, there's more.

I have a massive flesh-eating rash pioneering across my forehead.

I kid you not. Ok, it's not flesh-eating (thankfully), but it is a contact dermatitis. If that sounds medical-ish and scary, I assure you it is. My forehead is a DANGER zone. Give me some Cortisone or lose me forever.

Like the first snow of winter, the rash arrived out of nowhere last night. I spent a typical evening on the couch doing wedding-y things with my computer on my lap, Grey's Anatomy on the TV, and a glass of wine balanced precariously on the couch (a bad idea I know, but the couch is brown leather and wipes off easily). After I stayed up far too late I went to wash my face. Before leaning over the sink I glanced at my reflection and EEEGADS!, there was a giant array of red bumps across my forehead.

I immediately run over to Mr F, who is already lying in bed, and show him the rash. He is staring straight at the TV when he goes "don't worry, it's nothing." I turn off the TV and make him stare at my forehead. This time he says "Oh" and raises an eyebrow. And then he's silent. Well, that's not good.

"Can I do anything about it?"

"I think you should just sleep on it and we'll see what it looks like tomorrow."

So I woke up this morning and bounded over the mirror, hoping that like Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, that seven moderately restful hours would provide me with a creamy clear complexion (and perhaps even a line-free face and a coach made out of a pumpkin, or better yet, a Coach bag in a deep pumpkin color).

DOUBLE egads! Someone must have made the rash ANGRY because it had become enlarged and redder and well, bumpier. And it was picking up real estate on my forehead quicker than Donald Trump was buying up the Upper West Side. So I slathered my forehead in Cortisone cream and dammed myself for growing out my bangs for the stupid wedding.

And I closed my office door the whole day so I didn't have to expose my forehead to my co-workers' prying eyes. Which worked very successfully.

Except now I have my shower in two days. In the scheme of things, sure, I understand that a prickly red rash that's slowly making its way around my face isn't the end of the world. People will still be happy to see me (if not eager to hug me). And sure, it would be way worse if I got it for the wedding (assuming it will be gone by then, which at this point, sure as heck ain't a given), but you know, wouldn't it be nice if something were just easy? You know, if Cinderella didn't have to have the coach disappear and the glass slipper fall off and Sleeping Beauty declined luscious fruit offerings from strange elderly women?

But I suppose it's all part of the story that is supposed to lead to Happily Ever After.

Except that I think my Happily Ever After is about to come in ten minutes since I've just taken a Benadryl to stop the itching on my forehead and I already feel some major drowsy kicking in.

The End.

Of This Post.