The Hive.

When I was a kid, I was sometimes referred to as “Princess,” as in the frustrating, difficult young lady from “The Princess and the Pea,” because I have always been an overly sensitive, supernaturally delicate flower. (In my defense, my parents did this to themselves. The Biblical meaning of the name Sarah is “Princess.”) I have always been very particular about temperatures, foods, clothing tags, and hair brushing. I have a lot of feelings about a lot of different things. I crave balance in all things, and can be a little bit of a cranky nightmare when I am: too hot, too cold, too sweaty, too tangly, too hungry, too full, too itchy, too lotion-y, too dry.

Every part of my body falls victim to this intense longing to spend every day eating a perfectly-sized burrito and some soft sugar cookies in 72 degrees with a slight breeze while wearing clothes with all the tags cut out. I get moody and irritated most of the time. However, one part is more sensitive and therefore, more obnoxious, than all the others combined; that part is, obviously, my skin.

My skin has rebelled against me for my entire life. My insane allergy to plated metals was discovered in my infancy, when I would break out in little metal-button-shaped rashes where the snaps of my onesies touched my body. By the age of 20, I’d had several subcutaneous cysts and discovered at least two hernias. I made the mistake once of wearing a new t-shirt from a big-box store without washing it first, and my back erupted in a horrible, itching rash in reaction to whatever terrible preservative shit they spray on clothing before it’s loaded on cargo ships. Things like heat rash, poison oak, and ring worm have haunted me always. That’s to say nothing of the acne, which is just always, always lurking. If there is a non-life threatening skin condition to be had, I’ve had it.

This brings me to yesterday, when I spent the whole day wandering around an outlet mall on a gorgeous, albeit hot, humid, and sweaty English Saturday. I made out like a bandit, finally buying a bikini that does not make me look like a sausage exploding out of its casing, as well as stocking up on the Crabtree & Evelyn Sweet Almond Oil lotion I’d been told had been discontinued in the US, and choosing a short, pink and orange woven-wool skirt that serves as the latest milestone in my ever-excelerating journey toward becoming my Birenstock-wearing, straw-tote carrying hippie mother. I was very pleased with myself and had a really great day, aside from the fact that I was pouring sweat for four hours as I moved in and out of crowded, tropical stores that had no air conditioning.

It wasn’t until we’d sat down in a local pub waiting for a bus that I felt it coming. Sometimes, I can sense the doom. In the amount of time it took me to drink half a pint of Stella, it had grown from a small, dense promise of misery to a full blown hive, forged in the fires of disgusting humidity and born right onto the middle of my chin. Oddly enough, if it isn’t a pimple, weird swollen crap on my face doesn’t bother me. Besides, while this heat-welt experience is rare, I am not a stranger to having my skin throw up its proverbial hands to the weather and say, “Enough already. I am done.” So, I proudly walked around for the rest of the evening with this welt on my face, confident that it wouldn’t be the size of a quarter when I woke up in the morning.

And guess what? I was right! It wasn’t enormous and swollen anymore when I woke up this morning. The swelling had gone down and it wasn’t nearly as red – because it had become a blister. I have a pea-sized blister on my face because I spent too much time in the elements yesterday. This is akin to the fabled photosensitivity blister, something I’d been warned about when I was taking Accutane, because that medication turns human beings into vampires who burst into flames in the sun.

It is the worst. THE WORST.

I’m happy I got out yesterday, because I am not leaving the house today.

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