pimples

I don’t know what it is about pimples.  I started getting blackheads when I was 9, much to my mother’s horror.  Luckily, she was prepared to remove them for me.  No fancy-schmancy blackhead removing tool involved here; fortunately, she had long fingernails. 

At the age of 13, I suddenly broke out all over my face.  This continued for about three or so years.  My photo from Year 10, at the tender age of 15, was so bad that my parents decided not to buy it.  It’s the only school photo that my parents don’t have, of the 24 years of combined primary and high school that my brother and I completed.  I remember crying when I got home the afternoon of that photo, and trying to count the number of zits on my face, just to know.  I lose interest when I got past about forty.  What did the actual number matter?  All I needed to know was that I needed a paper bag to stop people from staring at me.  And it hurt, too.

Now, in my early 30s, I still get pimples.  They’re not hormonal, either.  Nor do they limit themselves to the t-zone, although that is a popular area.  A couple of years ago, my brother looked at my skin, and said, ‘I think you’ll still have pimples when you start getting wrinkles’.  At the time I cursed him.  Now, I suspect he’s right.

Like other undesirable physical traits (fat ankles being amongst them), I inherited my skin from my dad.  While it is less than perfect, it does have one compensating factor; I seem to be taking a long time to get crows’ feet, and other age-related imperfections.  I guess I should be grateful, after all.  I do still get mistaken for being much younger than I am.  I like to think it’s because of my lack of wrinkles, rather than my abundance of zits.