So it’s coming on two years since I started taking you for my autoimmune disorder, and though I know you do all sorts of good things…

… well, YOU SUCK. LIKE A FREAKIN’ DYSON ON A DATE WITH ANOTHER DYSON IN A WIND TUNNEL.

Most of the time, granted, you do your thing without interfering too much. But when you get in the mood, you turn my body into a science fiction novel.

However.

I can deal with the fact that I never experienced PMS until my early thirties. It’s like gaining an annoying friend who I only have to talk to a week out of each month.

I can deal with hot flashes. They give me nice color, kind of like a scorching, blistering sunburn from being trapped on a desert island.

I can deal with migraines, nausea, hives… you name it. Though not all at once, please. And no locusts. That’s too biblical for my tastes.

What I can’t really deal with is that you’re the thing I have to blame it all on.

Hormones are supposed to be good when you’re a single girl of 33! The very idea of hormones is pure Cosmo fodder!

You’re supposed to feel them raging! Be inspired by them to do naughty things! Slip them on like Manolos! Toss them about like beads at Mardi Gras!

Not take them daily to avoid getting cancer or diabetes or osteoporosis. Killjoy.

It’s like putting on a cocktail dress to sit down and knit for a few hours, perhaps while beating yourself about the head with a porcupine figurine.

I’m tired of you guys not being the FUN kind of hormones.

So could you get on that?

Thanks,

Meg

While I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed or anything — shut up! I’m not! — I do have a love for “product” and beauty rituals and treatments. There’s just something appealing about the way the lotions and potions smell and feel… and how they feel on me.

Not to mention that I usually end up looking at least a little bit better for the time I spend. Usually.

(We won’t get into that one masque I tried that turned my face green. Or, uh, the wax that left giant welts on my… legs.)

(Ahem.)

The funny thing is, for a girl who loves treatments, there’s a heck of a lot of treatments I’ve never had, or had with such infrequency that it surprises my like-minded (like-treated?) friends.

The only things I’ve really done routinely are brow waxes (I do love my brows) and manicure-pedicures (which would seem silly, given my lack of toenails and my stupid fingernails, but walking around barefoot and typing all day take their toll.)

But.

Massages? One in my whole life. Which is actually impressive for a girl who breaks herself as often as I do. And it was a nice massage, don’t get me wrong. But hello? 80 bucks to make me feel less wonky for about a day? Riiiiight.

Arcrylic/gel nails? Well, a) they scare me, and b) my nails are shaped like tiny ski ramps. You can’t even GLUE a good nail onto those suckers. And they scare me a little anyway, like clowns do.

Makeup application? No one but me has ever done my makeup. Not even at some beauty counter. Not at a salon. Not for an event. Nada. I have no idea why, but I just don’t like people touching my face unless they’re planning to kiss me. And if you’re gonna kiss me, you should probably stop applying my lip gloss, yeah?

I’ve had maybe six salon haircuts in my whole life. And I’ve never had a salon updo (oy, they can go wrong SO fast) or a perm or whatnot. I’m actually a little scared of hairdressers. And the highlights I got? Turned green. Huzzah!

So.

Facials were another pool into which I had never dipped my toe. I think it had something to do with the “Don’t touch my face!” thing, as well as the “I’m not paying you $80 bucks to touch my face!” thing. I can do most of this stuff myself, you know?

I’ve been reading how to’s and trying vials and vats of stuff for 20 years. I ran spa nights for groups of women. Why would I shell out for that?

But, as with all things in my life, eventually I look my choices in the eye and go, “Eh. Try it once.”

So I did. With my dear Catherine. We went to get facials (and our eyebrows done) as a part of her Christmas/Birthday present (since they happen awfully close together, in about a month.)

I think it’s funny I got myself her birthday present, too, but hey… it was a fun shared experience, right?

And an illuminating experience.

(I’m not even talking about the shockingly bright light she shone onto my shameful pores, though I wouldn’t have wanted to see myself like that, no way, no how.)

It was pretty good, I’ll admit. Except for when she kept massaging over my nose and cutting off my one good nasal passage, which would lead me to open my mouth to breathe… and then she’d massage that part of my face so I’d have to close my mouth. I would get half breaths and no more, which isn’t super relaxing.

But I did learn a lot.

Apparently, the following is true of my skin:

1. It’s not oily, it’s dry. Everything I use on it? WRONG. WRONG, I TELL YOU. WRONG. Which sounded like a complete load of crap until she asked me all sorts of questions about how my skin behaves and lo… she was right.

2. Blemishes I get are from a) hormones (out of my control as a function of my disorder… and apparently out of control in general) and b) me stripping the crap out of my (it’s oily! I thought!) face. Well. And she’s like, “Sorry, do you have any?” Well, I THOUGHT I DID.

3. I have giant pores. Wait, I knew that. But! They were not all clogged. Not even most! Granted, she reefed the HELL out of the ones that were, but apparently? Good skin. Not even 33 year-old skin. And minimal sun damage? What? Seriously? That’s just dumb luck at this point.

4. My eyebrows? Wickedly resistant to plucking. Which I always thought. I mean, you have to really PLUCK to get those suckers out. She says it’s the dark hair. I say they are Follicles of Satan.

So. I have to buy new products.

I am grinning. Woohoo!

Dry skin products always seemed more lovely and soothing and intense and squooshy than the oily skin products, which feel kind of like Lysol combined with dish soap and a little bit of sand.

Even if you put the words “refreshing” and “clarifying” all over them — as though you were taking a mini-vacation of some sort, a vacation of clean — they’re still pretty fierce.

So bring on the love!

Any recommendations?