Valerie's Guide To Postponing a Breakup

Toothpaste And A Tank Top

If beauty were measured on a chart where space is at the top of the hierarchy, the sky is ordinary, and then the ground is ugly, I'm not quite sure where I would place. But if it were done based on how clear your skin is, I might be like, Titanic, bottom of the ocean low. Or maybe I'd be in space. After all, my face is a bit like the moon.

Not because it's bright and clear.

Because for every crater the moon has, I've got a spot.

Every day starts the same.

I cover my eyes with my hands as I step into the bathroom, hoping that somehow, by God's grace, my face has been the subject of a miracle. There's nothing wrong with my face. I have normal, dull, blue-grey eyes, a long, slim nose, and thin lips, all framed by a mess of curly red hair that I can never seem to tame. I've considered dying it a crazy colour, like blue, but I think that twenty-two is maybe a bit too old for teenage rebellion. I like how I look—it's my skin—that's the problem. I've begged Mum to move the bathroom mirror away from where it is above the sink so I don't have to stare at myself every morning while I brush my teeth. Every time I do, I receive the same curt response: "Move out, then, Valerie." 

I almost wish I could.

"It'll be better; it'll be better; it'll be better." I mutter to myself under my breath before slowly bringing my hands down from my face. I stare back at my own reflection in the mirror. Spoiler alert: It's not better. My acne just seems to get worse with each passing day. I know I'm not the only one who has acne. But sometimes, it just feels like a blot on the blank page of my face. I can hardly count how many different skin routines I've tried, but I can count how many times they've had an effect. Heck, I don't even need my fingers. You know why? Because that number is zero. Zilch. Nada. No matter how many creams, face washes, or clay masks I use, it never seems to make a difference.

I see these things on the internet that say you should feel confident about your acne. But somehow, I can never feel confident. I only ever feel imperfect.

I only ever feel ugly.

And that's when I'm not wearing my glasses. The first thing Mum said to me when I picked them out at Specsavers was, 'You look a bit like that wizard kid from the movie—are you sure you don't want something more... more better?'

I know people who've got acne; I know I'm not on my own—but mine is worse. I know it just sounds like I'm complaining for no reason, but I'm genuinely telling you the facts here—I know that the spots on my face are more than just 'noticeable' as Mum sometimes likes to put it. She thinks it makes me feel better. But, of course, it doesn't. I'm not the only one who sees it. The last time I went to see my dermatologist, that evil woman actually grimaced.

And I have to go see her again tomorrow. I'd rather jump out of a window using Mum's stupid floral curtains as a parachute than go anywhere that's within five meters of her.

Sighing through my nose, I take my toothbrush out of the cup near the sink, rinsing it before putting toothpaste on it, and then rinsing it again; the mint in the toothpaste Mum buys is super overpowering, and somehow I always forget not to drink orange juice straight after.

The only person who can ever make me feel better about myself is Leo—even if it's only for half a second. Leo is my boyfriend. Every day when I wake up to messages from him on my phone, it still feels surreal. I can hardly believe it myself. We've known each other for so long that you could say it's forever, but until a year ago, I never thought he'd be anything more than my best friend.

"Valerie!"

Mum's sing-song voice drifts up the stairs and to the bathroom. I spit in the sink, not bothering to step out into the hall before yelling back, "What is it, Mum?" "Come here!" She calls back. "I'm brushing my teeth!" Mum pauses before replying. "But I need your advice on something, darling, come downstairs." I roll my eyes, blowing out my breath as I drag myself down the hall and down the creaking stairs. I keep brushing my teeth. Whatever it is mom has to show me is most likely not worth my time, so I'll multitask.

When I walk into the living room, I nearly choke on my toothpaste. Newsflash: I'm now fully convinced that this woman is trying to murder me. She's plotting my demise with Dr. Hargrove—I dare you to convince me otherwise.

"Mum," I say, barely recovering from my coughing fit. "What are you wearing?" Mum frowns at me, her heavily pencilled eyebrows knitting together crossly. "What do you mean? You wear it, so if anyone should be asking that, it should be me." Mum has stolen a top from my wardrobe—again. "You can't wear that, mum," I tell her, not caring when toothpaste drips onto the carpet. "But I'm going to the club tonight, and I need something to wear!"

Mum spends more time at the club than she probably does at work. Maybe she's been fired from that 'boring office job' (as she likes to put it) already. Who knows?

"That top is too small for anyone's mom to wear." I say, letting out a groan. I sigh, plastering a smile on my face. The one that Mum knows is fake. "Now give it back—just because I'm practically the same height as you doesn't mean you can steal my clothes. I drew the line at my leather jacket, Mum—please." "Oh, alright," Mum says, clearly disappointed. She presses her rosy lips together, quite obviously unamused. "But if you weren't freeloading in my house, I'd have spare money to buy myself some more clothes." "Freeloading?" I splutter. "I'm literally your daughter." "And you're twenty-two." I suck in a breath through my teeth, resisting the urge to scream at her. "Okay, Mum," I say, refusing to let my fake smile falter. "Now, I've got to go get ready. I agreed to meet Leo at the new brunch place downtown." "Fine," Mum says sarcastically, folding her arms. "Maybe while you're at it, ask the owner if he'll let you live rent-free in his brunch place." I purse my lips, narrowing my eyes into a glare.

I try not to think about the rain clouds that have suddenly gathered over my otherwise perfect summer morning.

Think happy thoughts, Valerie.

Think Leo.

___

I let out a sigh when my taxi moves forward about an inch. Five minutes, and we've moved an inch. I hate traffic downtown. I've already apologised to Leo, telling him that I'm going to be late. But he hasn't replied. I stare at my phone screen, willing it to show me his reply. About ten seconds pass before the message comes in.

Don't worry about it, the text reads. I've been that person before☺

I smile at the text, putting my phone back in my pocket once my brain deems the response satisfactory. I am extremely guilty when it comes to overthinking things.

With every second, the price of my Uber is going up. We're just around the corner from the brunch place on Peters Street. It opened up a few weeks ago, and recently, everyone has been eating at Rise and Dine—it's a bit of a weird name, I know. But from what I hear, they're just as delicious as they are corny. I know a lot of people from college who have gotten jobs there for the summer.

Saying that the traffic on West Street is awful has to be the understatement of the year. Sighing again, I look out the window and at the jewellery store that's at the end of the road. It's called Lustre and Gem, except the 'G' and the 'T' have fallen off, so it looks like 'Lus re and em.' You'd really think they'd decide to fix it. They charge you a lot in there, so they have the money. I suppose they're just incredibly lazy.

The taxi moves another inch, and my lenience finally snaps like a twig. "Excuse me," I say, with a lot more patience than I feel. "Can I get down here? It'll probably be quicker if I walk." The taxi driver mutters something under his breath that I don't catch before grunting non-committedly in response, so I open the door, muttering a curt thank you as I step onto the pavement, barely avoiding a crisps packet that goes skittering past. (My boots are new!)

I reach for my phone in my jeans pocket, and I click into Leo's contact.

Nearly there! I type.

It takes him exactly five seconds to reply with a thumbs-up. I grin, more than a little relieved, but it fades when a notification comes in telling me that my Uber cost a staggering twelve euros.

Maybe their distance to price calculator is broken—but I'm far too feeble to pick a fight. I mean, I can hardly speak up in Starbucks when they put 'Mallory' on my cup. (I mean, it's probably not their fault; I tend to mumble, if you haven't sussed that out from what you've gathered already.) Plus, it's not worth my time. If wasting money annoys Mum, then maybe it's a good thing. Considering that she's a no-good clothes-stealing witch—er, I mean, mum—I don't feel bad.

Score one of today goes to none other than yours truly.