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I’m Loathin’: The Grossest Post Ever June 3, 2009

Posted by A. Robinson in Life, Loathin'.
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So, I figure since I’ve already revealed myself to be a terrible, AWFUL person on this blog (read: hating the homeless), there’s no need to hold back.  I have a confession to make: I cannot handle skin conditions.  For those of you who know me, you know I’m no prima donna.  Getting muddy and dirty is no problem for me; I’ve worked on a ranch before, so I can deal with various kinds of poop without flinching.  I’m rough and tumble, and with the exception of vampires, I don’t scare easily.  However, one look at someone who has a skin condition and I’m done.  I mean, mild acne is okay, but excema?  Rashes?  Psoriasis?  Absolutely EFFING not.  Had John had a skin thing, I wouldn’t have married him.  That’s how much they gross me out.

I can’t tell you where this dislike came from.  There was no huge event in my life that turned me off from people with skin issues.  However, should I ever have a rash, my life might as well be over.  A few years ago I had a pin rash from an allergy to latex I was unaware of, and for THREE WEEKS I cried myself to sleep every night. I was pretty sure I was going to die and/or I would be hideous forever. I cried sporadically even after the rash was completely gone, for goodness sake.

This fear of having skin things myself has heightened my awareness of skin things on other people.  If someone has a suspicious looking spot, I make sure to point it out and urge them to get checked.  If there’s someone shopping at a store and they have some issue, I will go out of my way to stay away from them.  I’m sure all of these people are extremely nice, and I know they have no control over what is eating their skin or whatever, but looking at these “conditions” turns my stomach.  I start to feel nauseous, I get cold sweats, and I just have to leave.

Anyway, this back story is only relevant so that I can tell you about what a TERRIBLE day I had yesterday in regard to this almost-phobia.  It all began with Subway.  I stopped in to grab a sandwich on the cheap, and I happened to notice that the lady working the Subway counter had something weird going on with her face.  It looked like she had some subdermal cysts or something; I was trying not to stare while I decided whether I could stand for her to make my sandwich or not.  They weren’t oozing or anything, so I figured I was okay (the plastic gloves didn’t hurt my confidence either).  I made it through the line okay and even ate my sandwich!  The whole thing sort of made my skin crawl, but I was doing okay.

It was Target that killed me.  My sister had bought me some flip flops for my birthday, but they were the wrong size.  I was still feeling a little funny after the Subway thing, but I was regaining my composure.  Anyway, I got in the exchange line and stood for a while, paying no attention to the people behind the counter.

“Next,” said the female cashier.  I walked over, looked up at her, and I’m sure I paled out.  On her face–ON HER FACE, RIGHT ON HER CHIN–was the biggest wart I have ever in my life seen.  It looked just like a stump sticking out of her face.  It had TEXTURE for Chrissake.

I swear to God, no exaggeration.

I swear to God, no exaggeration.

I struggled to get through the exchange.  When she touched my drivers license, I thought I was going to die.  I had to force myself to take it back from her and put it in my wallet sans wretching.  I finished my exchange was quickly as was physically possible, and ran to switch out my flip flops.  At this point, I had already reached panic stage.  Did I already have wart germs on my hands?  How will I get these wart germs off?  Is it too ridiculous to kill myself for getting a wart?

I changed the shoes as fast as I could, and went in search of Purell.  I had to resist buying the biggest bottle they had and taking a bath in it; I settled for some convenient wipes.  I rushed through the checkout, and tore into the Purell before I had even left the store.  Within minutes, I had disinfected myself all the way up to my elbows, and covered my purse, wallet, drivers license, and debit card.  Only then could I convince myself that I was okay and continue on with my day.

I know, I know.  How dumb, right?  How superficial of me.  Trust me, I’ve tried to change it, I really have.  I just can’t.  There’s too much icky involved for me.  That’s not to say that I won’t love each and every one of you should you develop leprosy.  It just means that I’ll have to keep a trash can near my chair in case I vomit.

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