I have sensitive skin. This means that I can’t use soap, not Ivory, not Dove, nothing soap-ish or it burns my skin. Yes, burns. Instead, I have to use Cetaphil for sensitive skin. It means I can’t dry my face with a towel. I have to pat it dry or it stays red and I look like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer—not an attractive look in a woman.
It means I have to put uber-sensitive skin lotion on my face or my skin hurts. And worst of all, if my skin gets really upset I get little water blisters, not pimples, blisters. (Yes, I know this means that I probably have rosacea—but I can’t have it, because that would make my health insurance company extremely unhappy. Just for the record, I have never been diagnosed with rosacea.)
So I researched products for people with “skin like rose petals.” According to various websites, I needed a moisturizing product that would form a barrier to protect my fragile skin from the perils of modern life. Every site recommended a cream from Dermatologica. But it was expensive. I decided I didn’t need it. And then, I broke out in multiple little blisters just above my lip. I ordered the product.
It arrived yesterday. At this point, I’m hoping it’s not snake oil. I did wash and pat dry my face. I put a small amount of the precious ointment on my skin. Ah, the burning was gone almost immediately. It lasted for about 8 hours. At the very least, it makes my skin feel better—and I don’t have any new blisters. Not yet, anyway.
Then the truth about my skin hit me. I’m sure you remember the story of the Princess and the Pea. In order to discover if she was a real princess, her fiancé’s mother made her sleep on top of a stack of mattresses underneath of which was a pea. A true princess is so sensitive that she’d be unable to sleep. I think I have a version of this. My skin is so rarified that the “common” stresses of modern life are too much for it. So, I’m really a princess in disguise. I wish I’d known before, this would totally give me a leg up in getting my novel published.