There have been several pimples that have taken residence on the side of my cheek, apparently the low-rent district of my face. So I decided to get myself a facial this morning.
Included with the facial, was a brief hand and arm massage -- which is when the esthetician found it.
"Someone bit you?" she asked, while gently rubbing lotion on my scabby, bruised forearms.
"My son," I said. "He bit me." And then the whole scene played in my head: the boiling water I was scared he was going to throw at me, how I very firmly placed him against the kitchen counter away from the water, how he was so upset that I had restrained him that he began tangling his hands in my hair while pulling my head and scratching my arm and hand.
"Here," she said, "I have some Neosporin." And she gently rubbed the healing salve on my wounds.
A tear formed underneath the cucumber-water soaked cotton balls covering my eyes.
And I felt grateful for her tender care, and thought I should never need to give myself permission to do something nice for myself like a facial. Pimples aren't the reason I need to come in; to honor me for me is the only reason I need.
Wishing all you the ability to honor yourselves in the ways that you need in the coming year. Happy New Year!
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I'm formerly cms8741, and you can find me at my new blog mysuperanonymousblog.com