I kind of always knew I would wipe out when I bought this Razor about a year ago. But I bought it anyway, and I arrogantly kept thinking, wow, each time, I keep not wiping out. HAHAHAHAHA to all those Facebook friends who said I would wipe out on a tiny rock on a city street, because look at me, shaving off a few minutes from every day on my little scooter! I'm beating the system! Living the dream! Making it work!
And then on Friday at 2 p.m., it happened.
Pride goeth before the fall, my friends, and the night before I had just shelled out several hundred bucks to get my hair done all white blonde (I actually showed my hairdresser the picture of me in the background on the xoJane Twitter profile background and said "do this" and then pulled up a clip of me on the Artie Lange Show last time I did it where it didn't achieve quite the same level of blondie-blondeness and said "not like this"). The hair results were a little shocking and artificial and fake but you know what, dude, I was feeling it.
On Friday -- the day after the TV taping -- Artie had been nice enough to agree to do my podcast at his place in New Jersey, but about an hour before I was scheduled to go over, when I saw my bank account I realized I had kind of overshot the whole Drop $300 On a Damn Hairdo situation and might not even be able to afford the ferry ride ticket over so I had asked a friend if I could borrow some money before payday and I was racing on my scooter to borrow some cash -- and, and, and --
SMASH. SPLAT. MAN DOWN.
A guy came up to me on the street and I stood up shakily and dazed. He handed me my miraculously uncracked iPhone which had come flying out of my shirt pocket, and I looked at it gratefully as I licked my lips and tasted the blood and gravel in my mouth.
I had to be in Jersey in a half hour. I had completely screwed the pooch.
"So, should I call an ambulance?" the kindly scooter-wipeout-tending Good Samaritan inquired kindly but not so kindly as to indicate that he wanted to Get Involved for more than the societally prescribed initial two minutes after a public accident first responder time.
"No, no, no, I'm fine," I said, very proud of what a little soldier I was, and I wobbled into the pizza place right next to where I crashed next to the other pizza place right next to where I crashed and walked in like I was on Project Runway. I was making it work.
"Ice," I said. "Please?"
At first the pizza maker looked at me annoyed because he had not given me the First Responder Initial Two Minutes of Crisis Societal Contract that he wanted to, you know, get involved. So I did like Heidi Klum and burst out crying. You know, to compliment the blood on my face.
In response, the pizza maker guy politely shoved some plastic bags filled with ice at me, waved me on my merry way, and I shoved them onto my pulsing face. It was at this point that I went from "please give me ice" crying to just simply hysterically crying.
Hire me, pizza guys of the world. I'm good for business.
I would not say that my tears were because I was in pain so much -- although I was, my arm was clearly very sprained and my knee was banged up pretty bad -- but the past few weeks of overscheduled, drama-filled, antidepressant-quitting, fear-driven anxiety just suddenly broke free in me like a dam that had been plugging up stopped up emotions for weeks. And there was no stopping this river.
When I stepped outside, I first looked at my dumb scooter which up until this point I had been actually evilly contemplating trying to return with some made-up phony baloney story about falling off of it and no longer needing it to see if I could get a store credit for some new running shoes -- and proceeded to weep at the cruel irony of fate: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO LIARS, MANDY.
I didn't even want to see it for another second ever again for the rest of my life -- although now that I think about it, I suppose if I were to have bust into Paragon at that moment, bleeding and weeping with my gravel-blood-cry-face, I probably would have gotten at least a $10 off giftcard or some noise. Instead I veered into New York Dermatology Group on Fifth and 19th where my friend Dr. David Colbert works and where I had just been the day before to get a Triad facial (microdermabrasion, light chemical peel and laser toning) and had gone from glamorous Khaleesi wanna-be to simply being the crazy girl in the waiting room dripping ice and blood and tears all over the place.
I didn't even want to see how I looked. I had not pulled out a mirror, my iPhone, nothing. I wanted to simply use their facial reactions as my mirror. So far, so good. No one had actually averted their eyes or given me the lying-through-their-teeth "it's not that bad" that is always the first tell of doom.
Instead, the nice doctors there picked the gravel out of my face, assured me I wouldn't need any stitches and asked me nicely why didn't I just cancel the interview I had to do that day. "I'm," I said, sobbing in between words, "speaking...at...Gossipcon...later...tonight. This...isn't...my...only...commitment. I...can't...cancel...anything."
Waaaaaaaaah. They told me to take a minute.
I texted Artie who told me to slow down, be careful, don't worry.
Then I slathered on makeup onto my face so that I wouldn't be so self-conscious that my interview with him was mostly about my effed-up face and how I had thrown it all away for a mere 10 minutes shaved off my damned commute. Once my tear-makeup-applique job was successfully slathered, I hopped the ferry, and tried to get all my crying out of the way on the ride over. Sometimes it feels so good to just cry and have an excuse. I had been hurt! My month had been crap! I was going to die alone! LET'S DO THIS THING!
Realizing I had never made it to the destination I was going to borrow money for the ferry back, I texted an ex-not-really-ever-a-boyfriend-in-the-first-place who lived over the way in New Jersey and met me at the station to lend me some cash (which, DATING TIP, LADIES; that's always how you want to keep them interested -- borrow money, ESPECIALLY while you are bleeding and sobbing!). This sweetheart man kindly told me my interview would be great and not to worry and it was nice to see me and hug, hug, hug. At this point, I had passed the Humiliation Threshold and had kind of brought it together in my mind that I was now a great warrior battling through her first-world problems like Patton would have if he had been dumb enough to buy a Razor scooter.
Once inside his beautiful apartment, the interview with Artie was awesome and deep and funny and sad and thank God I didn't read this inscription he wrote in his book until after because I would have lost it completely bawling.
I love angry funny bigger than life guys who speak the truth so brutally. I really do.
Then I walked back home after the ferry dropped me off to avoid the cab fare, and I sent my personal intern Rajasri on a scavenger hunt of sorts around my apartment and around the city -- down to Kamwo and Whole Foods to gather the necessary accoutrements to pull myself together to fake being the put-together sort of woman who you would hire to speak at a GossipCon gathering.
Now, for the real service element part of this piece, in case YOU ever bust your face open, here's what I recommend:
- Arnica tablets and cream
- this healing cream that does super-fast wound repair that you can buy at Kamwo called Ching Wan Hung for like $5
- this intense trauma oil that made it possible for me to move my wrist and arm as the sprain healed (also sold at Kamwo) called Die Da Jiu (it's like $10)
- Dermablend which you can find buried in your makeup cabinet to hide a good-old-fashioned scar... or you can use just to slather all over your face!
- Make-Up Forever which is primarily sold to hide tattoos at conservative open-arm weddings... or you can use just to slather all over your face!
- ColbertMD facial products to use as part of a daily and nightly regimen... or for those special occasions, when you have pounded your head into concrete
- Bare Minerals which has a heavy-enough coverage that you can fake skin perfection with on a very light way on the daily... or you can dab into areas that are completely red and oozing and no one is the wiser at all!
And the result looks like, voila! Pretty not terrible if I do say so myself. It was actually my barely moving arm that gave me away more than my face at the convention. So who knows, maybe I have a second career as a makeup artist or something.
Let's be honest, the results are pretty super-slathered-on make-uppy, but NOT so distracting that a conference which is supposed to be about fun gossip talk suddenly turns into a situation where everyone is wondering why you were dumb enough to ride around on a Razor scooter in the first place and a general pity fest for the sad state of my life.
In other news, today I have a screen test for something else. I am excited. I will also be walking to it. Very, very slowly.
What are your busted face covering tricks? Or healing magic powders and oils? I keep meaning to do a big wider post on the glory that is Kamwo and Chinese herbal medicine in general, so let's call this one a very special prequel.
Find Mandy long-form at http://tinyurl.com/stadtmiller.