Eczema, you are not invited to my pizza party
I’m totally dying.
Not in the “I-have-a-terminal-illness-and-wish-to-see-Hulk-Hogan-in-my-last-days” dying, but I’m dying. In increments. The way we’re all dying. I understand that last sentence sounds like so much dorm room philosophizing from an undergrad, but please bear with me. In the past three months or so, I’ve had to get glasses for failing eyesight, a breathing test for inflamed lungs, and I totally have one of the unsexiest of skin disorders, eczema. On the ladder of unsexy biological failings, glasses + eczema + asthma hits the hat trick that puts me just a rung or two above cystic acne and obesity.
Why am I telling you this? I’m not entirely sure. There is, of course, an element of navel gazing, look-at-me blog generation thing going on here. I totally acknowledge that. At the same time, I think that the past couple months have ushered my biology in to the stupid, terrifying thing called adulthood. You know you’ve entered adulthood when shit starts breaking down and you realize that your body is saying “dude, this is a house of cards and it’s going to fall over at any time…CHECK YOURSELF.” Okay, well, maybe the body isn’t saying THAT specifically. But still. If you pile that on top of the exponentially growing neuroticism that is beginning to rule our lives, you begin to see a window into the much talked about, much unloved Real World. This Real World is the one where you have to deal with stupid dry skin and dumbface, mild agoraphobia. Or high blood pressure, or ADHD, or needing to pee sit down sidesaddle. Or whatever combination you have therein. To one degree or another, we ALL have to deal with this shit, and the sooner we acknowledge it, the better. Still. Eczema, you are not invited to my pizza party. Because you are itchy as shit.