Page Text: Where Religion, Philosophy and Demographics Meet
Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.
Friday, April 01, 2022
Flare
Peasant Woman Against a Background of Wheat, Vincent Van Gogh
Some while ago, I saw a photo of myself and was taken aback at the color of my face -- not prettily flushed or even red with embarrassment, but entirely, abnormally pink. I say "abnormal", but the phenomenon itself is completely ordinary, keyed right into my genetic heritage. I'm of primarily Celtic descent, and along with the curly hair and the green eyes, that also nets me the proclivity to rosacea.
And rosy I am indeed. Last year the dermatologist offered a prescription cream, and I passed because I was able to keep things under control with good skincare and sunscreen and nutrition. Last year, sigh. I don't know what it is now -- maybe I'm under stress, maybe I let too much sugar creep back into my diet. Maybe I'm just getting older. It's certainly not alcohol, because I don't even like drinking. Whatever the reason, my rosacea is flaring. I break out like a teenager. My skin is dry, but even mild exfoliation irritates it. Blotchy red patches blaze across my cheeks and nose and forehead, and are starting to creep along my jawline. It has come to the point where I, who never used to wear makeup, now put on full coverage foundation -- not for vanity's sake, but so that I don't look like I'm drunk.
Just drinking water isn't enough, though it can't be neglected. Just cutting sugar isn't enough, though it helps. Just wearing sunscreen and a hat isn't enough, though it's necessary. It seems my face's skin chemistry must be adjusted externally. Hyaluronic acid helps the breakouts. Moisturizer for sensitive skin helps the bumpiness. But neither seems to alter the underlying redness, and for that it looks like I'll need a prescription -- something that can be acquired, I hope, without the several month wait it took to get into the dermatologist the first time.
In the meantime, if you see a cherry nose, it's not dear old Santa, though now I salute him as a fellow. It's just the luck of the Irish. We don't wear our heart on our sleeve. We wear it right across our face.
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