Pimples

As a teenager I didn’t have to deal with very much acne. Still, every pimple left me longing for the day that I’d be old enough that I wouldn’t get them anymore.

I’m 47 now. Isn’t that old enough?

Why did the adults in my adolescent life lie to me? Why did they say that the zits would all be over soon enough, and I’d long for the days when my problems were that simple? (Well, I suppose they were half right!) Why didn’t they tell me, back then, that there was still a good chance I’d always be dealing with blemishes on my back, or on my rear end? Those, at least, are usually hidden by my clothes. How about the ones out in the open, alongside my nose, visible on my chin through my beard, or on my balding pate?

Oh, wait. Maybe they didn’t tell me because they didn’t have them. Does everyone, or is it just me? Are we each allotted a fixed number of pimples for our lifetime, and I didn’t get nearly enough as a kid, so I have to put up with them as long as I draw breath?

Nowadays (see, I’m old enough to say "nowadays" now, and it sounds just as hokey as when my grandparents used to say it; shouldn’t I be old enough that I don’t get pimples anymore??), the medical advice is to leave them alone, don’t pop them, because it increases the risk of them becoming infected.

Right.

As if I could leave that swollen, slightly painful, white-headed pustule alone if my life depended on it! That would be impossible even without still hearing my dear, late mother’s voice ringing in my memory’s ear, telling me I "really ought to go pop that thing!" I don’t think she ever used the adjective "disgusting," but I always heard her imply it nonetheless, and still do now.

See, it isn’t enough I still get zits. I have to obsess – not to be confused with abscess – over them, too. Gee, thanks Mom!