Poker face.

Bump in the night, indeed. And, no, it wasn't a noise. The bump was on my face.

See, in addition to being the Queen of Sinus Infections you also can call me the Supreme Highness of Sores. As in canker. Or fever blister. Or seal of Satan. Because that's what it feels like - I've been marked by the devil himself with a yellow, puss-filled, crusty scab so large it's about to take over my face.

It usually happens once a year. This time around, it's been a doozy. Not exactly on my lip, but in that nice, fleshy cleft between the nose and mouth. Kind of high for my typical bout of sore suffering, but - whatever. It's not Shingles, as the Cheapest Woman in America insisted over the phone earlier this week. Rejoice!

But the appearance - nay, form - of said sore was bad enough for Dr. X to compare me to a fascist dictator. When I came downstairs for breakfast earlier this week, he saluted me like a member of the Third Reich. "Heil, Hitler!" he shouted. You'd better believe the response I unleashed on him for that comment could have ended multiple world wars.

At least Dr. X had the decency to comment on it. Yes, decency. Most people, when I engage them in conversation or enter in their sight line, just stare. Or try hard not to stare. And by trying hard not to stare stare directly at it. Hard. Without flinching or looking away. I'm working on trying to get the dang thing to wink at them. Or at least hum a tune. Or do something that equals the magnificence of its size.

And there are comments, trust me. "What is that on your face? Did you fall?" one co-worker asked me today. "No," I answered. "I let Daughter X draw on my upper lip with red-brown marker and it won't come off." Someone else asked me what I was putting on it. "Something, surely," she said. "Nope," I replied. "I'm just letting this thing runs its course. It has a life force all of its own." (Honestly, that last statement is true.)

A fever blister, though uncomfortable and unsightly, is truly just a minor thing. I know that by the end of this week, it will diminish, it will dry up, scab over and flake away. Just like every other of my fairly disgusting ailments - be it ear wax or bizarre reactions to crayfish.

When I was in high school, I worked at a grocery store after school and on weekends - just a few days a week to pick up some petty cash. And there were regulars I got to know pretty well. That could make another story, except for one man who relates to this one. A burn victim. He came to do his shopping either at 6 a.m. or 11 p.m., when most of the other shoppers were home in bed or living out their lives with whole, perfect faces. He was completely scarred with no hair, lips or ears. Likely, he was just a puckered, pink shell of his former self.

Whenever someone stares at me - rather, my blister - as if I've grown a third head (and it actually is starting to look that way), I just stare right back. What is beautiful? Who is beautiful? The bald, scarred man with webbed fingers counting out his change to the girl in the maroon grocery-store apron?

Don't avert your eyes. I look back and smile - we all have scars and scabs, even if they're not visible.