You never realize how vain you really are until something happens that makes you look awful - really, really, awful. Two weekends ago we went to the beach at Fire Island and I got a little too much sun on my face. No big deal, right? Momma was just a little pinky for a few days. Or at last that's what I thought until the following Tuesday when my face began to explode. (You're lucky we don't own a digital camera, or you'd probably be looking at a picture of the disaster zone right now.) Specifically, my lips - top and bottom - gave birth to a good half a dozen cold sores. Now, I've gotten one or two of these a year since I was little, but never like this. Apparently, exposure to strong sunlight can bring on cold sores in people who are prone to them. Who knew, huh? Certainly not Mamacita .

So, of course, after several years of trying, last week is when my company decides to promote me. Which is great, don't get me wrong, but I looked like I'd made it out of Chernobyl a couple of weeks later than everyone else. And it bothered me a lot. It bothered me when my boss brought me into his office to tell me about the promotion, and it bothered me at the department meeting when the announcement was made and everyone looked at me. It bothered me on the subway, and it bothered me in the drugstore where the clerk made sure to drop the change into my hand from six inches away. And then I felt like a jerk for being bothered. After all, would I want to touch the hand of a stranger who clearly had some type of skin disorder? No, no I would not, especially in New York.

So then I felt like a double ass, once for looking like a freak, and once for not wanting to look like a freak. And that reminded me of my high school Spanish class, sophomore year. Senora Powers was teaching a unit on adjectives and had given us the assignment of describing ourselves. I waited until class was about to start and then scrawled on a piece of notebook paper "Yo soy fea y gorda." It made me laugh every time I thought of it for the rest of the day. I could have said my hair was brown, could have said I was fairly tall, but where would the fun have been in that?

By the time we got the assignment back at the end of class two days later, I had forgotten all about it. But Senora hadn't. Written in green ink at the bottom of my paper were the words "Please see me after class." I started to freak a little. Semi-good kids like me didn't get talked to after class, and if they did their semi-scary parents had better not find out about it.

I walked up to her desk smiling my A-1 "for adults only" smile. "Senora, you wanted to see me? Que pasa?" She paused for a moment and then blurted out all in one breath, "Karen, I read what you wrote and I want you to know that our guidance counselors have had a lot of success working with kids who are suffering from self-esteem issues like you are."

Whoa. At worst I had expected a reprimand for my half-assed, facetious take on the assignment, but not this. Self-esteem issues? Right.

I told her it was a joke, but she wouldn't let it drop. "There must have been a reason you said these things." "Yah, I thought it was funny, Senora." She kept probing me with her searchlight eyes, but what was she looking for? Of course, I did think I was fat. After all I was fat, but I wasn't blind. And I didn't thing I was ugly, and I especially didn't think I was ugly in Spanish (such a lovely language).

"It was a joke," I told her. Silence. Silence. Silence. "They were the two easiest words to remember." "And why do you think that is, Karen?" Wow, Senora and my therapist may have gone to the same school. Seriously. She just kept staring at me. And yes, we both knew something was sort of wrong, but did she really expect me to give it a name? To call out my hurt to Senora Powers, who wouldn't let me take a piss unless I begged for it en Espanol ? Fuck that, and fuck her fea y gorda sheep's face with its watery eyes and yellow grey wool. Fuck her for prying into me when all I did was make a joke - a joke that was mine to make before anyone else did. How dare she make me feel wrong somehow, because I'd acknowledged that I looked different? It wasn't low self-esteem; it was reality. El verdad , bitch!

It took ten minutes before she finally gave up. "Well, my door's always open, Karen." " Gracias, Senora. Gracias. " She got the A-2 smile on my way out; it seemed appropriate.

Anywho, this whole thing has reminded me that it's not easy to feel like you're different. Especially, because sometimes you feel different, because you are a little different. Sometimes there really is something wrong. (Oh, my God, this makes me laugh so hard, that my lip - now mostly healed - just split open.) That's sad, and it's funny, and to me, it's true.

So, in this general spirit, today's resolution is to stop saying retard, retarded, and all other retard derivatives. I've been feeling kind of bad lately about how much I say it. It used to be a point of pride with me that I didn't, but somewhere along the way it started to seem okay. And it's not. I've thought about stopping before, but never made a point of it. All I have to say is, if you don't believe that this time I'll really stop, then you're a real retard.