One of the things they don't warn you about when you marry a dermatologist is that they like to perform violent experiments on their faces.

To be more precise, I didn't actually marry a dermatologist. I married a man who became a dermatologist. This is like getting hitched to someone who converts to Buddhism. Except, like, Buddhism with Botox and filler.

The moment Skylar got accepted into his dermatology residency a few years ago, everyone we know began texting him photos of rashes. This is not a nuisance, and is, in fact, encouraged and even solicited in a way that frankly almost feels predatory. Skylar loves these texts. He begs for them. The man enjoys a good rash. If it didn't freak me out so much I might even be willing to wonder if it's a fetish.

I've had friends tell me to thank him. They texted him a photo of their toddler's foot, asking for advice because they've been seen by three doctors and no one knew what to do. He'll recognize the condition immediately, advise that they go get some very specific medication, and then it will clear up in 24 hours. I beam with pride when I hear these stories. And then I remember we're talking about rashes and fungus and then I want to vomit and wonder how I married someone who is so different from me.

I'm not surprised he's good at what he does. He studies all the time. I really mean all the time. And not because he has some test coming up. It's just because he wants to be good at his job. I swear to Cher I recently made him put his phone away during a wedding ceremony because he was quizzing himself with flashcards as the bride read her vows.

I hear him on the phone sometimes talking to a patient and I don't understand half the words coming out of his damn mouth. And since I don't understand what he's saying, I'm left to assume he's doing affairs. Or worse, playing Dungeons and Dragons again.

But back to the violence. Periodically this man will come home looking like he attempted a gymnastics routine in a butcher shop. The things we do to our faces in 2024. The pioneers would have never traded us places if they could see this.

He has gotten very into experimenting with lasers. Allegedly, if you apply a blowtorch to your face until it has fully melted off, like those Nazi's from Indiana Jones, it will eventually grow back into the complexion of baby Jesus after a spa day. The only price he has to pay for the privilege is looking like a biblical leper for four to six weeks and limping around the house constantly telling me of his unrelenting agony. I don't know why he limps. I assume this is just for dramatic effect. Louie does the same thing when Duncan barks at him.

Now listen. His body his choice. This is the United States of God Bless America. I believe in freedom. My heart is a bald eagle. When I snore it sounds like the Star Spangled Banner. He can do what he wants.

But this man needs to be stopped.

Last week he walked into the house and shouted a sentence he always says right before I'm about to have a sudden headache. "Hi honey, you're going to be really mad at me."

Usually this means he has purchased something that will inconvenience my life, like an industrial humidifier that will take up permanent residence in the living room and drown out all polite conversation for the rest of time.

But last week, the phrase was followed up by his Edward Scissorhanded face making a debut into the kitchen like a horror film getting its own debutante ball.

Why did he think I would be mad about this? Well, my friends. This is not our first rodeo. And even though his body his choice god bless America. Even though all that. We have a number of public events in the coming weeks (including that very night) and his face is attached to my SPARKLING reputation.

Skylar tried to reason with me that no one cares about what his face looks like and I reminded him that I married him for his face because I expect it to be a money-maker at some point so I can retire and spend all day every day lying on the floor of our living room staring at the ceiling fan, depressed, and wondering what the point of life is, because that's been my dream for a long time and he has no right to take that away from me.

I told him that when we go out in public people are going to think I'm beating him. And no, I am not making light of domestic violence. This is not a joke. This is a real concern I have. I know I'm making a lot of jokes here. But I'm dead serious about this. I am genuinely worried that people think I'm doing this to him, despite what we've already established is my reputation. Which is sparkling. With glitter.

Skylar tried to bribe away my irritation with an offer to do the same laser treatment on my face, which could not have possibly been a worse read on the situation by him.

But if you can believe it, having to look at a face that has essentially been sent through a meat grinder is not even the worst part of this. I can handle the face. Skylar is the hottest man who has ever lived. He could smear his face with monkey feces (I should not give him any ideas) and he would still be exceptionally beautiful. I go on daily walks with this man. He turns heads. And not just because he's usually singing a high-pitched Disney song where he inserts our dogs' names at random.

The worst part of this is he has located and purchased the most terrifying ice mask ever envisioned by demented man in human history. He wears it all day to help with the swelling and pain. I can't adequately describe how upsetting this mask is. And I'm so sorry to do this to you and your nightmares, but you just have to look at this picture.

I have no permission to share that photo. Also, his eyes are up here, guys.

Why. Why is this. Why is it yellow. What is happening. Why did someone intentionally create this. Why did someone intentionally buy it. Why does the person who bought it have to be the man who married me and moved into my house. Is this a punishment for being gay. Am I being punished. Should I go back to church. Am I homophobic now.

If this mask is not already conversion therapy, maybe I should enroll.

I've had friends tell me, "well, when he's 50 he'll probably still look 35." And maybe that's true. I'm sure that's true. But how is that helpful? Do I really want to look like I'm married to my son?

Goddammit. I'm going to have to let him give me laser treatments so I can keep up.

~It Just Gets Stranger