Remember back in grade school when your teacher taught you how to make a capital D by extending Mr. Curve on the right all the way down to the bottom of Mr. Stem? Me either. But it’s a good policy.
My face started breaking out when I was in college. It probably didn’t happen in high school, because I didn’t care about much except my boyfriend and dog back then.
But I had to pay for college, so I wanted to participate, be involved in student organizations, get good grades. So I worried, even graduating with an advanced degree in worry, and my face indicated it. I was uncomfortable about my condition, embarrassed. I became ultrasensitive about how others viewed me and from which angle.
My friend Rich, who had already graduated, would go to my house while I was in class and leave fun, sentimental, thoughtfully written cards. His words had depth toward which I still aspire, though we journalists can be perpetually matter-of-fact. He had heart, you could tell, and didn’t seem to be bothered by my facial “worry expressions.”
One day after school in the quiet of my home, I tenderly and eagerly opened an envelope from Rich and read: “Dear Pimples…”
Ahhhhh! That undiplomatic coot, I thought, laughing as if I’d seriously maim him next time I saw him. I was appalled!
Then, in my aftershock, I reread his caustic greeting and realized, in his special method of scribing, he had actually written “Dear Dimples,” his nickname for me.
copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.
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