Friday, June 08, 2007

The Satisfaction of Stripping

I was cleaning out my medicine cabinet last week and I found one lonely, little Biore Pore Perfect strip.

Do you remember when those were all the rage?

I couldn't throw it away. I love those little buggers. So I washed my face and slapped it on my nose.

When I emerged from the bathroom, my husband started laughing at me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm cleaning my pores. Don't judge me."

I cuddled up with him in bed and set my watch timer for fifteen minutes. When it beeped I braced myself, gripped a corner, and pulled that bad boy off in one fell swoop.

Then I spent a good half hour marveling over the little forest of pore dirt left on the strip. I mean, it's like a tiny little dirt rain forest sprung up out of nowhere.

My husband suggested I include my fascination with dirty pore strips on my list of Seven Weird Things. I ignored him and went to sleep secure in my pore's state for another week.

In the last two days, Mount Vesuvius has been growing on my nose. And it hurts. A lot. Maybe it hurts because I legion of little pore dirt people are gearing up to make a demand for a virgin sacrifice. Or maybe this will be the zit to end all zits and I'll make it into the Guinness Book of World Records.

"You need a pore strip," says my husband.

Tonight he ran to the grocery store for ice cream, cereal and Diet Coke. And what special treat did he pull out of the bag? You guessed it. I shiny new box of ULTRA Biore Pore Perfect strips.

But they weren't all for me.

No, my big, bad warrior decided that he should probably clean his pores before he heads off to the sandbox. Maybe it will help his gas mask fit better. Who knows.

He disappeared into the bathroom and I tucked into my mint chocolate chip. But that mint chocolate chip almost came out my nose when he returned with his pore strip on upside down.

"Way to read those directions," I told him. "Can you make sure you point your M16 the right way? Do those have easy-to-read, illustrated instructions too?"

He waiting his fifteen minutes and eased his strip off a section at a time. Wimp.

And his strip had no little pore dirt forest! What fun is pore stripping if you have no little dirt forest to marvel over?

So I took a turn stripping myself. I thought my pores might be cleaner this time around, but, no. This time my dirty, little strip resembled the New York City skyline! So many dirt buildings. So pretty.

But my nose still looks like an eruption is waiting to happen.

When I kiss my husband goodbye next week, I'll have to do it around the giant growth on my nose. And I'll have to trust that he'll operate his warrior-boy machinery better than a little girly-boy adhesive strip.

At least I know he's leaving me all fresh faced and clean.

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