Peel Me Like An Orange

I acquired quite the sunburn the weekend I went on my I have to get out of the house right now for a break or I’ll kill myself getaway. For some, putting on globs and globs of aloe helps them to not peel. But my skin pretty much told me straight up that since I killed it, I was going to have to deal with the peelage.

Okay, I have a creepy confession: I reallllllly like to sunburn, because it means I get to peel. There is something indefinably satisfying about this unfortunate habit. I’m sure some of you other readers have it – I believe it’s quite common(ish). But the joy found in peeling off a piece of skin the size of your palm is phenomenal in the eeriest of ways.

Well, ten days later, the peelage has begun. Everywhere. My neck, my chest, my shoulders and armpits, arms, legs, you name it. All this glorious skin just waiting to be peeled at my earliest convenience. And well, my earliest convenience couldn’t wait until I got in the privacy of my own home.

No. Oh, no.

It had to be right then, at my desk at work. Never mind the people passing through in the hallway. Never mind that what I was doing was really tacky. And gross. And something people no doubt would be discussing over the water cooler. Never mind I could not get a thing done at work for the rest of the day because the peeling of one’s skin is more addictive than crack cocaine and weed (and eating disorders, I daresay). None of it mattered. For I was getting my creepy fix: dead skin.

So, I discreetly pulled my garbage can near me, and began a peelin’. Gleefully I tried to outdo my previous giant piece of handsome skin. And then I couldn’t stop. On my break, I’d peel. Standing in line to get my chicken salad sandwich, I’d pull and tug that skin off. Stopped at a red light, I'd peel, roll down the window, surreptitiously drop it and watch it flutter away in the wind.

And everyone, I know what I’m doing is icky and vulgar. But I can’t help it.

And then, as I watched my skin blow away in the wind while I walked around outside, or blow into oncoming traffic as I merged onto the freeway, I realized my skin – my DNA – is now blowing all over the city. I’m still not sure how I feel about this. It could easily get caught in the cuff of a sleeve or in the handlebar mustache (that was in bad taste, of course) of the next guy in SLC waiting to be murdered, and WHAMMO! I could be brought in for questioning. A burly, no nonsense detective wearing a tired brown suit and scuffed loafers could very well ask me, "Why was your DNA found on the dead victim?"

"I don’t know, detective," I sob, "I have a creepy fetish, but I’m so ashamed to admit it. Please don’t tell anyone, I beg you!"

Or something like that. Shutup. It could happen.

I don’t think I’m going to let my skin go wherever it wants anymore. I think the peeled remains will be placed firmly (but oh so lovingly) in a waste basket in my home. Because the last thing I need right now is an untimely arrest.

But I have to stop now. Peeling myself at work, I mean. Because yesterday afternoon, I was busy not working, scraping away at my skin, hungrily searching for fresh spots ready to be skinned, and in walks my supervisor’s boss’s boss: the CEO.

“Morning, Brie.” He smiles ever so pleasantly.

I am caught with what looks like a long, stiff piece of slightly discolored Vaseline in my hand. What to do with it? Do I a) frantically flick it off my fingernail, mumble an apology, say Morning, sir, turn back to my computer, and let the flush creep up my neck? Or b) do I smile, exchange pleasantries, and pretend the damning piece of evidence that I am a disturbing person with a sinister fetish is not stuck to my finger? I did neither a nor b. I did c, which was worse: I grabbed the skin (that was so completely satisfying to peel, btw) with my right hand, tightened it in a fist, looked up at him, tried to smile, and got out, “Ah.” Clear my throat. “Hmmmm. Heeeeeey.” Thus begins this laugh thing that’s really disguising the fact I want to hysterically cry. Or hysterically vomit.

Lesson learned: keep your filthy and unwanted fetishes to yourself. After all, I’d really like to get my 0.33 cent raise next month.

Anagram of the day:
Creepy fetish: I’s, hefty creep because I gave this disgusting habit the fiercest hype.

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