I thought that getting out of high school would mean a face as clear as ivory snow. A face that looked like creamy, buttermilk perfection…but I was wrong. And then college came and I was sure that ending my matriculation would mean ending my problems with blemishes…again, wrong. Perhaps it took the ripe of age of 25 for my face to grow out of its proclivity for nasty splotches. But my face didn’t get the memo so I moved the age to 30. 30 was positively ancient. By 30 I would definitely never get another pimple again. And then I woke up with two today. Not one, two. And 30 passed me by eons ago.
Looking at my face in the bright glow of my bathroom mirror I grimaced. On the left was a tiny shiner that hurt like hell. If felt as if somebody was stabbing me above the eye with a sharp needle. How could something so small hurt so gosh-darn much? On the right side of my face was a gigantic welt that looked like a hive from a bee sting. I mean it was huge. When I turned my head to the profile it stuck out like a topography map. I had my own little Mt. Pimpluvious. I could put a flag on it and claim it for the French.
Looking back and forth between the two felt like watching a tennis match. And then I noticed off to the distance in the right another one. I had missed it at first because of the sheer size of Mt. Pimpluvious, but now I could see it quite clearly. I had a trifecta on my hands. A connect-the-dots of ugly splotches. A nightmare, in other words.
I don’t know about you guys out there who are reading this right now, but pimples? At my age? I’m raising the bar to 35 and having a serious talk with my face. If my face can’t figure it out by then…I give up.