Written by Angela Barnett 05:00, Jun 05 2022 and published on Stuff 'republished here with the author's permission' 

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SUPPLIED

Angela Barnett has always been self-conscious of her “beet cheeks”.

Angela Barnett hails from Taradale and her tūrangawaewae is Piha. She’s a writer, body image activist, mother, and lover of wigs.

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OPINION: Last week I saw a social media post declaring that blushing was adorable.

Pffft. Blushing is only adorable in children, because when an adult's face turns into a giant, ripe tomato it shouts: “I’m unsure about this situation!” which is not helpful unless you’re facing crocodiles. In a social situation, it’s well, embarrassing.

In high school, I blushed so hard one day in assembly some boys bestowed me with the nickname “Beet cheeks”. That’s a good title for a vegan porn star, but not for a 15-year-old girl desperately trying to be cool.

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During my 20s, I struggled to lie without blushing, which was difficult when I worked in an advertising agency. Like roulette, I never knew when my cheeks would land on red, especially when everyone was staring at me.

If only I could have quipped, “Excuse my face; it’s a sign of profound thinking!” or “I’m in circulation training for old age!”

But when all the blood has rushed to the capillaries in the face, it seems to leave the brain momentarily, as no good lines appear, just one reoccurring thought: “Face, are you listening? Do not go red, puhlease!” This line is about as helpful as telling yourself to stop worrying.

According to research, the redness is never as bad as we blushers imagine. But I asked one of my close friends how obvious mine was, and she pinched her cheeks. “Scarlet!” she said, followed by “rashy”.

Rather obvious then.

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For Angela Barnett, being “vulnerable in the cheeks” means “showing everyone how awkward and uncomfortable you’re really feeling”.

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I know being vulnerable is the popular new emotion, and Brené Brown’s groundbreaking work on the importance of vulnerability is changing power structures everywhere, but being vulnerable in the cheeks–showing everyone how awkward and uncomfortable you’re really feeling–is about as much fun as going to work naked.

It feels out of your control. A few headlines say blushing “is good for you” because we’re seen as trustworthy and blushers are found to be “better romantic partners because people who are easily embarrassed are more monogamous”.

But that’s because blushers are lousy liars, which is why you never see blushing politicians.

After having children, my blushing got worse. If I was in a social situation my heart would race at the thought of telling a story, and then, often, when I attempted one, my face burned so violently I couldn’t get the end of the story out.

Then I saw a guy in a supermarket who used to have a crush on me– more than 20 years ago–and I blushed profusely when I saw him in the distance, just at the thought of talking to him. As he headed my way, I hid down the crackers aisle. Baffled, I felt like my unreliable face was falsely advertising feelings I didn’t have, had never had.

Blushing is not for the faint-hearted; you have to be tough to survive.

 

As Stephen Fry said once, “Self-consciousness... I keep seeing myself. Me watching myself watching others watch me. How do you lose that? What's the trick?”

A new mother doesn't need more reasons to stay at home, so I consulted Dr Google. There I discovered that, unlike skin conditions such as rosacea or psoriasis, my blushing was in my mind. Subconsciously, my mind was telling my capillaries to burst open without my permission.

Sceptical yet determined, I marched off to hypnotherapy. Two sessions, four decades of emotional baggage in tears, and a reboot were all that was required. By questioning the story I told myself about my blushing: it doesn’t make me weak, and actually, it doesn’t serve me, it was radically reduced. It was the best $240* I have ever spent.

This story is not about releasing another weird secret of mine into the world–and us blushers are fooling ourselves thinking our blushing is a secret–but highlighting the question all philosophy students face: how are our minds and bodies connected?

For years I thought they were separate, one doing nasty things to the other without my consent, but they’re not. Me, I, my conscious state is in charge. And we are all running our own shows.

And I have to say that not blushing makes me feel far more adorable than being Beet Cheeks.

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