Fungus-Face Rides Again

Terri Psiakis comes clean and lays the smack down on sores of the cold variety.

Here’s the thing: I get coldsores. That’s it. I know it sounds blunt, but there’s no easy way to put it because the more you try to be delicate, the worse it sounds. For example, if I kicked off with “Are you familiar with herpes?” you’d immediately think this was going to get awkward. If, after I meal, I said “You’ll probably want to sterilize that cutlery” your thoughts would probably turn to Ebola or SARS. So in the interests of avoiding hysteria, I like the forthright approach.

Why am I reviewing coldsores? Two reasons: it’s the next logical step after reviewing gastro and toilet paper. It’s just the kind of class I bring. But I also want to draw attention to the plight of coldsore-sufferers. No, really. We’re tragic. It’s us and homeless Romanian red-headed amputees.

My first coldsore was in primary school and earned me the nickname Fungus-face. When it healed I reverted to my previous nickname of NF. Given that NF stood for No Friends I can honestly say that while I never enjoyed the coldsores I liked the refreshing change they provided at recess.

Coldsores are caused by a virus called herpes simplex, which approximately 80% of adults have antibodies for in their blood. The other 20% have what I personally like to call ‘retardibodies’ and when those people are run down they’re susceptible to the virus cranking up and causing coldsores, which form on the nose or lip as the kind of blisters that are so other-worldly they’re probably best described with the aid of a Sir David Attenborough voice-over.

You can also get a coldsore if you kiss someone who has one. Although I personally think that if you’re strong enough to get past the grossness to hook in for a pash, you should be wearing a cape and leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

A friend of mine says that when he has a coldsore, his girlfriend looks at him like he’s a smear of something under a microscope. The Bloke never comments on my appearance when I’m riddled but I strongly suspect he’s spraying me with Glen 20 while I’m asleep.

Earlier this year I had a huge coldsore right on the end of my nose. When I applied treatment cream, it looked like I’d been shat on by a pigeon. How do I know? The man at the post office told me. My response? “Less talky-talky, more licky-stampy.” Although I probably should have known better than to leave the house.

And coldsores don’t just look bad, they hurt. I’ll feel good about the pain the day I see Jennifer Hawkins on a billboard in a bikini, flashing a brilliant smile tempered by a lump of Zovirax.

- Terri Psiakis