The above photograph is a self portrait, taken moments ago. It is my nose, with a friggin’ whiteheaded zit resting along a nostril rim.
This bothers me for three reasons:
A. Because, in the exact location where it’s located, the zit is extremely sensitive and hurts like hell.
B. I rarely notice these things until, oh, 30 minutes after an important face-to-face conversation.
C. I’m 40.
Let me repeat that—I’m 40. Forty! Not 14. Not 16. Not even 21. I’m 40-years old. Which means I no longer have to lie about how a feel, I no longer have to sit through Transformers-like movies and I no longer need Oxy pads. This isn’t merely a post-adolescence age; it’s a post-, post-, post-adolescence age. No zits allowed.
And yet, I still get them, and somewhat frequently. It pisses me off, because I’m sure there’s a movie producer cruising my hometown as we speak, looking for the next dashing leading man.
Alas, the zit …
