“Hi Ed,” I said as I walked through the door of the church.
“Hey, I heard that you have psoriasis on your armpit. How is that working out for you?”
“Ed,” I said. “How do you know I have psoriasis? That’s rather private and heartbreaking!”
“It’s not so private, Blair. Someone posted it on social media!”
Before I reached the sanctuary, two other people had asked about my psoriasis, one person congratulated me on the anniversary of my first prom, and another offered sympathy for my nail fungus.
I tried to forget about my life on Faceslap and the resulting lack of privacy. I settled into the pew and listened to the pastor preach. After he was finished, he said, “We have several prayer requests this week, including the asthma of Martine’s Uncle Joe and the hemorrhoids of Blair Woodcock.”
Time froze. Everyone’s heads swiveled in slow motion as their languid eyes fixed themselves on me. The blood rushed to my face and I couldn’t breath under a hot crashing wave of embarrassment. My mouth went dry. I wanted to melt away into my seat. I would have squirmed, but I was afraid squirming would appear as if I were contending with an itchy symptom.
After the service, church elder Mabel Glutz approached me. “I just so happened to have some Preparation H in my satchel!” she announced gleefully. As I slunk out the door, I heard a few other voices offering me doctor recommendations and home remedies.
I’d go to another church, but social media are interdenominational. I heard there’s a good church service on TV… I might try that next time.
Meanwhile, I need to log on to Chirper to tell my followers about my neighbor’s gastric bypass debacle.