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Skin preoccupation
May. 10th, 2006 02:48 pmI am preoccupied by something in much the same way as a popcorn kernel caught in your back teeth seems to preoccupy your tongue. You just can't seem to get your tongue to forget that the kernel's there, even if you can't feel it between the teeth, and even though you know that poking it with your tongue won't do anything but make you look stupid. Instead of my tongue wandering to this particular distraction, it is my mind wandering to focus on a two-inch bit of skin on my right shoulder blade. That's where my shiny new birth control patch is stuck.
Actually, my preoccupation is split between my shoulder blade and another two-inch square patch of skin on my lower abdomen. This bit of skin is where last week’s birth control patch was located, and the area is beautifully decorated with a delicate red rash. The skin feels annoyed under my jeans. Perhaps I should have worn a skirt today.
I am having a "if they can put a person on the moon..." kind of day.
I decided to try the birth control patch this month because, after eight years on The Pill, I am losing my ability to remember to take daily pills. Not wanting to prove my psychic correct by becoming pregnant less then a year after buying a house that has no room for a baby, I decided to try an alternative delivery method.
The ads and informational inserts for The Patch show a subtle patch stuck to a lovely woman’s back, stomach or ass, looking clean and non-irritating. Obviously this lovely woman simply stands around in her underwear all day, for my patch does not look that perfect for more then a few minutes. I move and my skin shifts, so the patch shifts slightly, leaving a thin line of adhesive on my skin all around the patch. This adhesive acts as a magnet, drawing to it the darkest fuzz and the fluffiest lint. Now my patch has a dark fuzzy trim that stubbornly refuses to come off.
Even before the skin under the patch got itchy and the rash broke out, the ugly-factor made a pretty clear-cut case for returning to my former method*. Rational as that might sound, I haven't given up yet. Now that I've proven to myself that I cannot count on myself to remember a pill every day, returning to The Pill means being preoccupied every day with the internal nagging: Did you remember last night? Will you remember tonight? My internal nag is very persistent, though useless when actually needed.
Personally, I think we need a new holiday where all the men who rely on their female partners for birth control do something nice for those reliable women who make sure there are fewer unwanted babies in this world by taking pills, sticking on patches, or inserting things. Sure, it is for our own good too, but it is a big responsibility, often accompanied by annoying side effects, and I want a present, damn it!
Now I'm going to go back to trying to work, pausing every fifteen minutes to poke at my shoulder blade and make sure the patch is staying stuck.
*Hormonal birth control has been very good to me in many ways, so I'm not eager to seek out other methods of protecting my uterus.
Actually, my preoccupation is split between my shoulder blade and another two-inch square patch of skin on my lower abdomen. This bit of skin is where last week’s birth control patch was located, and the area is beautifully decorated with a delicate red rash. The skin feels annoyed under my jeans. Perhaps I should have worn a skirt today.
I am having a "if they can put a person on the moon..." kind of day.
I decided to try the birth control patch this month because, after eight years on The Pill, I am losing my ability to remember to take daily pills. Not wanting to prove my psychic correct by becoming pregnant less then a year after buying a house that has no room for a baby, I decided to try an alternative delivery method.
The ads and informational inserts for The Patch show a subtle patch stuck to a lovely woman’s back, stomach or ass, looking clean and non-irritating. Obviously this lovely woman simply stands around in her underwear all day, for my patch does not look that perfect for more then a few minutes. I move and my skin shifts, so the patch shifts slightly, leaving a thin line of adhesive on my skin all around the patch. This adhesive acts as a magnet, drawing to it the darkest fuzz and the fluffiest lint. Now my patch has a dark fuzzy trim that stubbornly refuses to come off.
Even before the skin under the patch got itchy and the rash broke out, the ugly-factor made a pretty clear-cut case for returning to my former method*. Rational as that might sound, I haven't given up yet. Now that I've proven to myself that I cannot count on myself to remember a pill every day, returning to The Pill means being preoccupied every day with the internal nagging: Did you remember last night? Will you remember tonight? My internal nag is very persistent, though useless when actually needed.
Personally, I think we need a new holiday where all the men who rely on their female partners for birth control do something nice for those reliable women who make sure there are fewer unwanted babies in this world by taking pills, sticking on patches, or inserting things. Sure, it is for our own good too, but it is a big responsibility, often accompanied by annoying side effects, and I want a present, damn it!
Now I'm going to go back to trying to work, pausing every fifteen minutes to poke at my shoulder blade and make sure the patch is staying stuck.
*Hormonal birth control has been very good to me in many ways, so I'm not eager to seek out other methods of protecting my uterus.
