In many ways, I’ve suspended vanity during Sabbatical, trading in my signature form-fitting sheath dresses, smears of nude lip gloss, and curled shoulder-length locks for a decidedly sportier look.

Most days, I applaud the return of slouchy, 90s-style cargo pants (along with other iconic 90s fashion, which maybe we’ll get in to later), pairing them with a gym- or studio-branded tank, a black sports bra with those frustratingly elusive liners, a ponytail adorned with a leopard-print scrunchie, and a dark green trucker hat commemorating our Manitou Incline triumph. If I’m feeling particularly punchy, I might clip said ponytail into my now-neglected curling iron for a few seconds, just to add a little bounce.

However … in other ways, the extra time on my hands has borne even deeper indulgences in superficiality.

Like last Tuesday’s chemical peel.

My first ever.

My 46-year-old olive-tinted skin isn’t doing poorly, but I’ve certainly noticed, over the past quadrennial or so, more lines, some redness, and an irritating brown blotch on my right temple.

No office tete-a-tetes with well-groomed colleagues? No Teams meetings with required on-camera? An ability to wear daily baseball caps to cast shadows and distract from the icky healing process?

Sure, let’s fry this face and see what happens!

Chemical peels work by literally burning off the superficial layers of skin, minimizing imperfections like age spots and redness, and stimulating the skin to produce collagen.

Sounds great, right?

Kinda?

I mean, at least those last two clauses?

I went to my favorite aesthetic RN, Jill, who is also 46, and so fit and beautiful it’s irritating. You know the sort of people you want to hate, but they’re so nice you just can’t?

For ten or so minutes, Jill painted my face with a Trump-orange tinted solution. It didn’t hurt, exactly. It felt warm, with a not-exactly-pleasant, but not-exactly-unpleasant tingle. She armed me with aftercare instructions (moisturize, gently cleanse, stay out of direct sunlight, and no super sweaty hot yoga!) and told me to expect days 3-4 to be “the worst.”

“That’s when it’ll really start peeling off,” she said. “But in a week or two, you’ll love the results.”

I looked in the mirror. Yeah, I looked … otherworldly. Sort of like I had fallen asleep in a malfunctioning spray tanning booth. On Mars.

Shrugging, I decided I’d go do my afternoon workout anyway. Heavy sweating is ill advised, but I would be fine with a strength training circuit.

There was a time – not so very long ago – when I would have been too embarrassed to be out in public looking like this, especially to hit up a class a cute boy was teaching, as was the case on Tuesday.

These days? I feel a little self-consciousness, sure, but self-consciousness doesn’t run me. I owned the look, entertaining questions from other teammates and clients, and went about my day.

By Day Two, I looked less orange and more blotchy-red, not unlike one might after a long day on the golf course sans SPF.

I threw on my mountainscape-printed, mesh-backed hat and went to Anatomy class. No one pays any attention to Mom there, anyway.

On Day Three, things happened. Suddenly. And quite dramatically.

“Mom! Ugh!” screeched Nate when I picked him up from school. “What happened to your face?!”

The deadened layer around my lips had a decidedly wrinkled, plastic-y look, and pieces were starting to roll up, creating unsightly dark lumps I had been expressly directed not to pick off.

“Can you please cover that up?” he said, horrified.

Tom took it in stride. “It’s not … so bad,” he said carefully.

I met a friend for a walk. I had warned her, and she politely ignored the September snowstorm falling from my chin.

Day Four was “the worst” yet, with huge sheets of inexplicably dark brown skin hanging off my cheeks in squares. I carefully trimmed off the dangles, being careful not to pull, as I had a class to teach and I didn’t want to give off a Contagion vibe. I put the overhead lights on low, and again tossed on my trusty moss-colored hat.

I’ve probably been overly optimistic about the level of distraction this hat actually provides.

I’m now on Day Five, and headed out to do some fall agritourism (think apples & pumpkins) with my 92-year-old Grandma. I’m still peeling some in the forehead area, but it’s no big deal. To the unaware, I just have a mild sunburn.

The age spot on my temple has faded by half, maybe even a little better than half. The new skin that’s been revealed so far is still red and blotchy, but it’s baby soft. Overall, so far, so good! I’d expect the flaking to be over by tomorrow.

Full results and healing take a week or two, but so far, this was a solid investment at about the cost of a regular facial.

I’ll probably do it again, head-topper at the ready.