It's Gone Viral

“I have herpes. I mean I don’t get them downstairs; I just get very violent herpetic outbreaks on my mouth. I wanted to look especially good for the opening tonight…Here’s the thing, I’m aware that you find me extremely attractive. There’s this heat. I know this might be eating into that moment, but I want you to know that it will go away soon."
Eric Schaeffer as Joe McGonagall in the movie 'If Lucy Fell'

Those lines defined my twenties. Lines littered with imagery you would, as a reader, probably wish that you hadn’t read. I get cold sores. They started plaguing me when I was ten and continue to make my life colorful and uncomfortable. Somehow, every time I’m afflicted with the virus Joe’s words pop into my head, largely due to my first roommate. She thought repeating them to both friends and strangers was hilarious; an ice breaker, if you will. Except instead of using the first person, she would insert my name into the phrase, “Sara has herpes…” Every time she uttered those words I cringed and flushed from head to toe. She is also the same person who upon contracting her very own virus chose to introduce herself with, “Hi I’m K..., I have ...”
What a sense of humor.

My cold sores come on when I’m tired and run down, exposed to too much sunlight, wind or elements in any extreme; when I get a nasty cold and refuse to take care of myself properly. They don’t happen for any self-inflicted or transmitted reasons, just genetics and a shitty immune system in my formative years.

You never realize just how vain you are until something happens to your face. My legs are covered in bruises; I’ve got cuts and scrapes from carelessness. Bad hair days are no problem because I’m always putting my best face forward. So when something happens to mar the amazingness that is my face, life just isn’t the same.

I try to believe no one notices. That my torment is a solo experience that only I am privy to, but just when I let my guard down and feel great, the questions come. “What happened?” demands the owner of a convenience store as he gestures to his oral area. “Are you growing a mustache?” inquires my socially retarded landlord. “What happened to your face? What’s the other guy look like? Did you fall off of your bike again?” and so many other awkward questions posed by friends and strangers alike.

No matter how many times these questions are asked, I'm never prepared to answer. I stammer through whatever mild explanation I can think of while trying not to blush with embarrassment. My ego is a fascinating and fragile thing. Normally I can laugh at myself and any imperfections I have, but when repeatedly asked by loved-ones, friends and most awkwardly by strangers it’s just too much to take. These questions manage to nullify my own cardinal contradiction: Everyone is watching, no one is noticing. (A mentality I adopted out of necessity from growing up in a small town where everyone knew your business.)

Scary Defensive SaraAm I becoming more sensitive as I get older or are people just less polite? Tabloid media provides us with full access to the dirty deeds of the famous, has the general public decided they deserve that access to the common folk as well? I catch customers staring at my mouth and know that they are just dying to ask. (Not that my infirmity makes my tips any better.) Or when I'm standing in a group of friends and one of them asks the obvious and makes me the center of attention. I hate being centered out even without a visible fault, it makes me react defensively.

I’ve been known to reply with witty one-liners like:

I’m infectious, want to make out?
It’s herpes.
I was performing fellatio on a curling iron and forgot to turn it off.
I fought the last person that asked me that.
Fuck you.
Nothing, what happened to your face?

I know that the majority are asking out of concern, but for some reason I only feel better after making them as uncomfortable as I am.

The most ridiculous side effect of this particular outbreak is that I have been hit on more in the last four days than I have in the last four months. I've had a number of men approach me, one of whom bought me a drink then asked me to accompany him for a slice of pizza (oh modern romance). I’ve had eye-sex with a number of strangers as I wondered: Is he flirting? Or trying to figure out what’s wrong with me?

Or my favorite, I was sitting on a patio enjoying a glass of wine when a man slowly walked by, made eye contact then paused and stared for a few seconds. It was a little disconcerting, but not unwelcome. Twenty minutes later as I was walking west, I saw him again. “I’m sorry to bother you. I noticed you sitting at the restaurant and didn’t want to disturb you. Wow! Would you like to have drinks sometime?” I hesitated for a moment weighing the options. Should I? Why not say yes? A 'yes' will bring more positive opportunities into my life. Is he gay? There aren’t enough drinks in the world for me to make-out with him. In the end I lied. “Thank you. I’m flattered, but I’m seeing someone. Have a good night.” I had a smile on my face for hours after, my body filled with the goodness of a magical moment. But I couldn't help thinking: What the hell? How did he not notice this atrocity marring my normally impeccable visage? Is he blind?

This truly is a phenomenon I don’t understand. I’ve decided it must be one of six things:

1. They’ve noticed my cold sore and believe that my self-confidence must be low; therefore, they have a better chance of scoring.


2. They too are prone to cold sores and it removes the stress of infection


3. It makes me look scrappy, like I might have been in a fight recently, and just maybe I’ll be a challenge


4. They are blind in which case all they sense is my shiny personality


5. Feeling less than perfect makes me a more open person, willing to talk to anyone


6. They just don’t care.

Ultimately, none of it matters. It's just me, my weakened immune system and my ego fighting it out. I suppose I should just take the questions as concern and stop being so suspicious of compliments. After all, I can't possibly be perfect all of the time.

Source: http://smorsels.blogspot.com/2010/08/i-have-herpes.html

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