In the past three months, I have started blushing. You’ve probably heard of it — it’s that thing stuffy old women did during the 17th century, except back then they could just faint to hide their shame, have their manservant Gregory bring over their smelling salts and blame it on their weak feminine constitution.
Life would have been so much easier without Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Betty Friedan. Setting higher standards for our gender has been exhausting in the long run.
Now, I’m forced to own this disgraceful tendency — much like I’m forced to own my water-damaged iPhone because I have yet to successfully trick the Genius Bar representatives into taking it back (Every conversation — Them: “You did this, ma’am.” Me: “Moi? Whatever do you mean?” Them: “Ma’am, you don’t speak French.” Me: “Dammit.”).
And it’s not an adorable rosy hue which occasionally graces the apples of my cheeks, re: the cheerleader love interest in a film from the 1960s. No. It’s an infectious red blooming on my chest, creeping up my neck and slowly burning my face.
And it doesn’t just happen when I’m embarrassed. Emotions which seem to provoke blushing include: excessively happy; moderately happy; sad; sad, but not sad enough to listen to sentimental Ed Sheeran; sad enough to listen to sentimental Ed Sheeran; the feeling when someone has an intervention for you because of all the Ed Sheeran; excited; excited, but trying to play it cool; angry, and not trying to play it cool; no registered emotion whatsoever. It has been incessant.
I think it may be leprosy.
Bold and also an abrupt tone change, I know, but I stand by it. When facing a medical enigma, I’ve found it’s always safest to start with leprosy. It’s the “Honey, I’m late this month…” of infectious diseases — start out with a scare, and “I don’t want your mom to come to Thanksgiving” is a breeze.
Not to mention a quick search for leprosy on WebMD yields a relatively short list of symptoms: disfiguring skin sores, lumps or bumps which do not go away after several weeks or months. So, like…maybe?
The thing is, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.
I know this. Ninety percent of the time, I don’t really think I have necrotizing fasciitis. But I would also be lying if I pretended I have never Googled “can you get necrotizing fasciitis by doing literally nothing or no?”
Maybe that should be something I lie about. Is there a medical condition where instead of being a pathological liar, you are a pathological truther? Looking it up. Do you think they treat that?
It’s a tired game I play.
Typically, I can talk myself down from the “death is looming / whatever I have contracted will surely end me / I don’t care what you do with the dog but don’t dare to read my diary” mindset relatively quickly. The Internet is as effective in assuaging medical fears as it is in inciting them, and a quick search usually confirms my wildest fears are not only absurd, but also logistically impossible. The problem then becomes self-diagnosis.
Doctors do not like being told you know what you have. They like being doctors, an occupation in which people study for upwards of 15 years to earn a monopoly on telling you what you have. You can see where conflict — I’ve already cross-referenced a few medical imaging sites, they are “licensed professionals and would I please stop doing that” — could arise.
The thing is, I’m usually right. When I contracted an ambiguous rash after spending 16 hours on a sleeper train from Shanghai to Beijing, I quickly confirmed it was the relatively benign pityriasis rosea. I went to the doctor, who for 10 minutes questioned me about whether or not I had been eating mutton. I had not. She asked again. Throughout the duration of our conversation, I had not consumed any mutton, so my answer was still no. She then told me it was pityriasis rosea.
Such incidents do little to inspire my faith in the medical community and have contributed to my decision to solve the blushing situation via a more informal route, re: my favorite search engines and a guest appearance by Ask Jeeves.
After all — it could be anything. It could also be nothing, but that’s just so boring.
Julia’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at j.horowitz@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
Letting go of my first year FOMO
By Mai Hukuoka | 14 hours agoIn an attempt to transition to University life, I found myself saying “yes” to way too many things, which left me feeling detached from my surroundings rather than at home on Grounds.
Days on the Lawn gives newly admitted Class of 2028 a taste of Grounds
By Miriella Jiffar and Mia Tan | 2 days agoThe annual spring program invites newly admitted students and their families to experience information sessions, resource fairs and tours around Grounds.
The weight of saying “I love you”
By Mai Hukuoka | 4 days agoWhile grand gestures can't fully describe the weight of love, that doesn't mean love has to be small. Love can, and should, feel heavy.
