Neon Tommy

“When it comes to adding color to my face, I prefer lipstick. But no one lets me apply their lips, since I blush so much.” –Bauvard, The Prince of Plungers

The worst thing about being a white person—or Caucasian, to be politically correct (I think)—is blushing. In high school I was given the nickname “big red” because of this trait. I would often be compared to the color of shirts, posters and of course food in moments of embarrassment—and for all of you who understand the curse of turning red…it only gets worse when attention is drawn to it, which it always is. 

It is almost like a syringe drawing the blood straight to your face. And no…it’s not in the cute way that cartoons like Daria blush, it’s in the way that Violet turns blue in "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" if she had turned into a cherry rather than a blueberry.

Throughout high school, while the title “big red” was in circulation, simply sitting next to a boy would bring the blood straight to my cheeks, forehead, chest, and in horrible cases, back. Boys in my class would hold contests on who could make me turn the reddest, and magically they all won. I could barely handle talking to boys because of this disability, so my dating life really did not exist.

I’ve learned a few tricks over the years though:

1) Start coughing so people think you are turning red because you cannot breathe…it is much less embarrassing.

2) Start laughing so people think you are turning red because they are really funny. 

3) If they point out you are turning red because you are laughing start coughing.

4) According to Google: puff your stomach out, breath deeply and hunch over. You might look like the Grinch for a moment but at least your rosy cheeks will die down quickly.

Once I stopped caring so much, the brilliant flames of my skin slowly died down, however they still flare up from time to time. The most violent attacks of blushing I now experience occur across my chest. These are usually sneak attacks where my chest breaks out in hives, causing the person I am with to ask if I am ok.  So this can be bothersome when I am on a date with I guy I just met.

In these cases of my own personal guerilla warfare raging across my skin, tricks one through four listed above do not work. In fact, I have not found a solution to this problem yet. I tend to reply with one or two of the following:

“Oh don’t worry that happens sometimes.”

“It’s just a rash.”

“It’s just the wine.”

“Oh that’s weird…so anyways…”

I try to conceal the splotches with clothing, which most often aggravate the situation but as long as my spectator cannot see it it’s all good. So until I get this condition under control, for my first few dates with men I do not know, I will choose dimly lit places with shirts/sweaters I have the option of turning into turtle necks so as to not alarm them right off the bat.