30 is the new 15, apparently. At least as far as acne is concerned. In fact, I think there are more pimples covering my face right now than ever before in my life. I’m not sure if this is just an age thing, or something else I can blame as an after effect of growing 3 children within 7 years. I mean, I blame everything else on pregnancy, might as well blame this, too. A constant, 50 pound heavier beer gut: PREGNANCY! Crazy rollercoaster moodswings: PREGNANCY! Weird things happening to my hair: PREGNANCY! Mt. Vesuvius-size zits: PREGNANCY! Stubbed toe: PREGNANCY! I know I haven’t been pregnant for almost 18 months, but still: PREGNANCY!
I even have zits on my neck, for crying out loud.
The smattering on my face are another story, but unless I wear a turtleneck 24/7 the protruding beast taking over my neck is tougher to cover up. Buzz, ever the kind soul, noticed this at its first sign of bright red eruption.
“Boo-boo!”, he exclaimed, brow furrowed, pointing even for good measure.
“No, not a boo-boo.”, I sighed in self-conscious reassurance.
He didn’t want to take no for an answer, though, and kept on. “Boo-boo! Boo-boo! Boo-boo!” Really, kid. It was like a taunt at this point. It’s not good for one’s already fragile self-confidence to feel like they’re being judged by a little boy who picks his nose.
“No, Buzz, not a boo-boo. It’s a pimple. You’ll learn all about them in about 10 years, OK?” Then, if you’re anything like me, you’ll wonder what the hell is going on when they show up in force another 17 years after that. But thank you very much for noticing.