Fictionalizing my Morning.

First person:

I faced the bathroom mirror. My eyes still squinted from a swollen face; my cheeks had faded from magenta to the pink of a first-degree sunburn. My nose had developed a smattering of tiny scabs near the tip. The rash that lined my cheeks and chin could not be seen, but felt. I placed my hands on my face to cool the burning and soothe the itching; scratching the itch would only make it hurt worse.

The sullen pink cheeks and nose formed a roughly butterfly-shaped rash that could, if I squinted, be the butterfly rash of lupus. It's always lupus, isn't it? Instead of indulging the hypochondria I inherited from my mother, I grabbed for Occam's razor -- the answer that requires the least mental contortions and complications is the correct one. That was easy: On Saturday or Sunday, I put an acne treatment product on my spotty forehead, nose, and chin. Monday, I woke up with the rash, which worsened on Tuesday, and lingered through this morning. I was not suffering from a chronic autoimmune disease.

I ran into Richard in the hallway. "Your face looks better," he announced. Easy for him to say --  he wasn't wearing my face.


Third person:

Lauren peered into the bathroom mirror. Her eyes still squinted from a swollen face; her cheeks had faded from magenta to the pink of a first-degree sunburn. She spied a smattering of tiny scabs near the tip of her nose. She raised her hands to her face and felt the pebbly rash across her cheeks and chin. Her cool hands felt like ice against her burning cheeks.

The sullen pink cheeks and nose formed a roughly butterfly-shaped rash. Lauren searched her mind for a reference to a butterfly-shaped rash. Lupus -- it's always lupus, isn't it? She turned away from hypochondria and grabbed for Occam's razor -- the answer that requires the least mental contortions and complications is the correct one. She racked her memory: On Saturday or Sunday, she had put an acne treatment product on her spotty forehead, nose, and chin, having heard about it from the pimple-popping videos she'd binge-watched the night before. On Monday, she had woken with the rash, which worsened on Tuesday, and lingered through that morning. By Occam's razor, then, the acne cream was the likely cause of the rash.

She ran into her husband in the hallway. "Your face looks better," he announced. Easy for him to say, she mused.


Future tense

In the morning, I will face the bathroom mirror. I will observe my eyes squinting from a swollen face; my cheeks having faded from magenta to the pink of a first-degree sunburn. My nose will sport a  smattering of tiny scabs near the tip. I will place my hands on my face to cool the burning and soothe the itching; I will feel the pinprick rash that I cannot see in the mirror.

I will touch my cheeks, wondering if my face bears the butterfly rash of lupus. It's always lupus, isn't it? Instead of indulging the hypochondria I inherited from my mother, I will grab for Occam's razor -- the answer that requires the least mental contortions and complications is the correct one. I will review the sequence of events: On Saturday or Sunday, I put an acne treatment product on my spotty forehead, nose, and chin. Monday, I woke up with the rash, which worsened on Tuesday, and lingered through this morning. I will reassure myself that it's not lupus.

I will run into Richard in the hallway. "Your face looks better," he will say. I will grumble at him -- "Easy for you -- it's not your face."