When I was a teenager, one of my girlfriend’s mothers told us that oatmeal actually contained all sorts of skin enhancing properties.  Initially, we feigned skepticism, of course, but it wasn’t long before we’d mastered the art of sprinkling just enough rolled oats into a dixie cup filled with hot water to create the perfect oatmeal facial.  We’d mix and stir and fold and blend before finally rubbing the whole disgusting concoction onto our faces, lumps and all.  Then we’d sit and wait patiently for the sticky stuff to eventually harden and crack against our cheeks, convinced that it was literally sucking the insecurities from our skin as it dried.  Finally, we’d wipe away the desiccated layer of muck with a wet washcloth and a sink full of anticipation.  I can remember looking in the mirror after my first oatmeal miracle, sincerely expecting some sort of drastic transformation: rosier cheeks, invisible pores or at least few less freckles.  Some of my girlfriends claimed to hardly recognize the girls they saw staring back at them … but somehow, I always looked just the same.