Mama Needs a Cosmo

There are so many words that can describe my recent experience with a Mary Kay consultant that I actually can’t narrow it down to a reasonable number, so I shall combine a few of the adjectives into one word: CLUIDIOSHAMUPILESS.

Which is clueless, idiot, shameful, and stupid all rolled into one.

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For most of my life, I’ve enjoyed having a pretty decent complexion. I’d have a breakout here and there, and then maybe once in a while a “tu-MAH” would appear and take over my life for about two weeks.

And that would be it.

Lately, however, I’ve been dealing with horrible breakouts (whiteheads and tu-MAHS) on my chin. When one side clears up, the other side flares up. And vice versa. Oh — and let’s not get into the bright red ones that have begun to appear on my forehead and chin.

And it’s not like I enjoy this. NO ONE enjoys acne. Unless they’re just plain psychotic.

But I have to go on with my life, so I’ve been trying different products in the quest to beat this shit. And then I try to cover it up. Which is an exercise in futility because seriously, DO YOU THINK NO ONE CAN SEE A CLUSTER OF CYSTS UNDER TWO INCHES OF AMAZING CONCEALER? REALLY?

Ugh. I hate my face.

Which brings us to February 13.

I had taken the boys to the mall to pick up the LOML’s Valentine’s Day gifts. And all had been going pretty well until I was accosted by a woman wearing a red jacket.

I expect this of the Kiosk Carnies that have taken over the common areas of any mall. I have plans of action for these folks, and can usually manage a trip to the Galleria without ever having to talk to any of them.

This woman, however, totally caught me off guard.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve got something that can help the problem you’ve got going on right there,” making a circular motion with her index finger around her chin area.

Uh. Muh. GAWHHH.

Trying to keep my composure because the boys were with me, and trying to believe she didn’t say what she said, I responded with, “Problem?”

“You knowww . . . [leaning in closer and whispering] the aac-nee thing . . .”

And for a minute I had an out of body experience, and during that out of body experience I visualized punching this woman in the stomach and then kneeing her in the face as she doubled over in pain from me punching her in the stomach. Which is EXACTLY how she was able to make me feel.

That doesn’t happen very often, because I’ve been quite successful in letting people know that NO ONE has the power to MAKE ME FEEL ANYTHING except for me.

Bosses or co-workers or asshole ex-boyfriends don’t make me cry. *I’M* the one who makes me cry.

The LOML or my Mom or the 10 o’clock news doesn’t make me cry. *I’M* the one who makes me cry.

But somehow this bitch was able to get into my psyche. Because for the first time in all of my 37 years, I actually can’t stand the way I look, and it has brought my self esteem to an all-time low. I hate my complexion. Sometimes to the point where I wish I didn’t have to leave the house. I’ve never been in this boat before, and it’s making me seasick.

And what REALLY PISSED ME OFF was the realization that she was a Mary Kay consultant (What level is the Red Jacket, anyway?). If it had been ANYONE else. And I mean ANYONE (my dad, the lady at the Clinique counter, a mall cop — anyone), it wouldn’t have affected me as much.

In fact, I probably could have even handled some big, tan, buff dude scream at me, “Hey! Fat lady! I’ve got something that can help you with that obesity thing you’ve got going on over there!”

Because isn’t there supposed to be some unwritten/unspoken code that states, “Thou shalt not go there” when it comes to acne? Isn’t that one on a very short list of things that you don’t talk to complete strangers about? Or is that just me being naive?

Anyway, because I knew that this woman had either — (a), been told that it was okay to approach women this way and had more than likely practiced a prepared script in her car for 30 minutes before walking into the mall or (b), was so far in Mary Kay debt that she would say anything to anyone to get them to buy something — I reacted in a way that made me come almost completely unglued.

“Almost,” because I had the boys with me.

Seriously. HOW could anyone be so dreadfully tactless? ESPECIALLY in front of children?

So, I (literally) unclenched and reclenched my fists, rolled my head around on my neck to loosen the tension, and said (quite loudly), “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FRIGGIN’ MIND?”

Surprised by my response, she gave me the puppy dog head-tilt, furrowed her eyebrows, and said, “I’m sorry? . . . ”

“You SHOULD be! Did your Director tell you it was okay to ambush people with acne in order to make a few bucks?”

To which she blinked hard and snapped her head back, as if surprised by my knowledge of how direct sales uplines worked.

Not letting her answer, I continued, “Do you think wearing that name tag makes you a medical professional? Or a Dermatologist? Because the only people qualified to tell me that ‘they’ve got something to help this problem I’ve got going on right here’ is a certified, medical professional. Are you credentialed?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Or do you think that I ENJOY having to BE FORCED to have this conversation with a complete stranger, who has NO FRIGGING IDEA what I have or have not tried and what has or what hasn’t worked for me in the past or what’s exactly CAUSING this crap to come up to the surface of my face?”

“I didn’t . . .”

“And if YOU had acne, would you think it okay for a complete stranger to stand in your path at the mall and tell you that she’s got a product that could help her?”

“Well, if you’d let me talk, I could tell you that I would LOVE to hear what anyone said if I thought it would help. I was just trying to help.”

Shaking my head in disgust, I said, “Wow. You people really ARE delusional, especially for thinking it’s okay to prey on women who you KNOW are feeling low. I knew that some of you had no moral compass, but this . . . this is beyond unacceptable, and I hope that the next person you try this with rips you an even bigger one that I just did. What you’re doing is NOT okay, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Then I grabbed Jake by the hand and nearly ran over her foot with the oversized race car stroller I’d rented for Benny.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I broke down and cried.

I cried after I walked away.

I cried on the way home.

And I cried in the bathroom after I got home.

God, I hate my face.

To make matters worse, Jake kept asking me, “Why are you crying, mama? Why were you so mean to that lady, mama?”

And all I could manage to get out was, “Jacob, that lady hurt mama’s feelings so I tried to hurt her back.”

I didn’t know what was worse: The fact that I let her “get to me,” or the fact that someone would actually block my path in order to point out that, hello, I HAVE ACNE and think that I’d actually be SO OKAY WITH IT THAT I’D FORK OVER A CREDIT CARD. Or even worse, my contact information and a promise to have a Mary Kay party.

AS IF.

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So tell me, did I overreact? In hindsight, I think I may have spewed a little too much acid. But honestly — being pulled aside AT THE MALL to discuss my acne problem with a complete stranger? I don’t even like talking about it with the LOML, let alone a Mary Kay consultant who has no idea what my story is.

And yes, that really WAS a prelude. There’s more to come. Because I actually DID see a doctor about my problem and I’ve got a few things to say about that as well. (Nice things, though.)