by Angie Vicars
What brings you in?" the nurse wanted to know. "This," I said, turning to show her the right side of my head.
"Oh my God," she said.
And I felt so relieved. I wasn't the only one freaking out because I had a very large, red ear.
But it didn't stop there. The right side of my face was big and red as well. Plus, the red zone had a feel like putting my hand to a freshly boiled lobster.
This bizarre affliction developed overnight. I woke up only to land right back on my bed with a case of the spins as carousel-like as the time I drank too much wine at Allison's grandmother's wake and learned how walls can spin whether you look at them or not.
Now, my co-worker, Kim, sat in the lounge of the walk-in clinic, waiting to hear why I'd become a combination of red face paleface.
Luckily, the doctor had a perfectly clear explanation. "I think it's an infection with a four syllable medical name that you've never heard before, much less had. And somehow it's affecting your ear and your skin at the very same time, although we have no idea why this is happening. But what I can tell you for certain is that no matter how bad you may feel right now, you definitely look even worse."
After shooting me full of an antibiotic I can't recall by name and adding a prescription guaranteed to make the yeast in me rise, the doctor ordered me back in 24-hours.
"How long will it take this to go away?" I asked, indicating the red-face side of me.
The answer may have been anywhere from three to five days. But I understood what the doctor was really saying. Mere hours to develop. And the span of my adult life for full recovery.
Why me, I wondered, as people ogled me in my office like a sideshow attraction. From the left, she appears to be perfectly normal. But when she turns, ladies and gentlemen, she becomes the nightmare you'll wake from screaming.
And as if to add to my despair, no one was taking the doctor's diagnosis at face value. "Maybe you have Ebola," my boss suggested.
"Botulism," another producer offered.
"Cat scratch disease," my vet student girlfriend decided, although she was calling from another state and had only my fever-enhanced description to go on.
But I knew what I had, a disease that only an artist could catch. I was suffering from Cubism, as sure as anyone Picasso ever painted.
Of course, Picasso wasn't really painting people who had bizarrely colored skin and freakishly large appendages on their heads. At least, not according to the art history books. They say he was making a point, or several points, depending on which painting you look at, to make geometry visible on a bunch of naked girls.
But my geometry teacher said that points, lines and planes were a bunch of made up theories just so we could do math. And I've always been mathematically challenged. So I think that before Picasso decided to revolutionize the art world, he must've seen a woman with a big, red ear. And by bending it a little, he soon had her into his studio and onto his canvas. People not only want to stare at that, they pay good money for it and call it art.
However, despite all the attention that having a swelled head brings, I was beginning to feel less like a revolutionary and more like I was being framed. That's when I tried to hide the truth about my condition with a sweater hood that I found in my closet. Maybe I'd have gotten away with it too if it hadn't been so warm out. But with the mercury hitting 80-plus, nothing in my closet could keep my Cubism under wraps.
And then, what to my wondering eyes did appear, but there in the mirror, a flesh-colored ear. After seven days of drugs, one night of Reiki and a whole bottle of lotion for extra dry skin, I had to face facts. My days of turning people's perceptions on their ears, were over. I was healed. I was whole.
Yet I felt so empty, strangely emptier than I ever had before. Drivers didn't rubberneck when they went by me. They didn't even hit the curb. Diners at the buffet didn't bump their heads on the safety shield anymore as the food they scooped fell short of their plates. And I didn't see anyone else in church keeping their eyes open while they prayed.
Oh God. Just when I accepted that I'd be forced to lead a normal life, I realized it would only lead to unhappiness. I didn't want to fit into most people's perceptions. I wanted to stick out of them like a big, red ear. Can you hear me now? Cubism is my true calling.
I know this makes me part of a minority. Most studies estimate that only one out of 10 people is a Cubist. (I suspect that in Knoxville, it's more like 1.5 but I'm not going to attempt a formal proof because I don't remember how.)
Of course, there are places where Cubists tend to concentrate. If you go to a play, you'll probably see Cubists. When you hire a decorator, he's probably a Cubist. When you hire a golf instructor, she's probably a Cubist. Look for people who challenge your perceptions. The man who's at his best in a dress and heels becomes every bit as obvious as a woman with a big, red ear.
So the next time you find yourself clutching a Crayola, color outside the lines. I dare you. And whether you auction the end result at Sotheby's or eBay, remember, I deserve a credit. I'm the one with the swelled head.
May 15, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 20
© 2003 Metro Pulse
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