I’m not going to lie and say it’s been a smooth week. It hasn’t been smooth at all. Really, there have been no tragedies or things that should completely derail my life, like aliens beaming my garage up into their saucer or my ears dropping off my head like autumn leaves. I have a snug little home, even if my tenant is leaving suddenly and I’m scrambling to find a replacement. I’m healthy, and so is my family. My job is very secure, and I’m good at it. Report cards are due Monday, but it’s Daylight Savings Weekend so I get an extra hour to work on them. A pack of blessings light upon my back, indeed.
Unfortunately, all the crazy stuff going on, particularly me trying to crunch the numbers to figure out how I will pay the mortgage if my tenant doesn’t pay November rent on Monday like she’s promised, have taken a bit of a toll on my body. All my joints ache because I’m not sleeping worth a damn, and definitely for way too brief a stretch each night. There’s a kink in my neck from hunching over my monster stack of marking, and significant portions of my left hand are bright pink from a pen that went kablooie last night.
Sorry. I wasn’t planning to whine about all that other crap. It’s pretty minor. I fired up my laptop tonight to gripe about something far more aggravating.
All this stress has made my face break out. Generally, I have terrible skin: rosacea, pores that threaten to turn into wading pools in a heavy rain, that kind of thing. I have a prescription goop for my rosacea that subdues it enough that I can cover it with a little makeup-based finesse, and I baby my skin to keep it from flaring. This week, though, I look like the “before” photo on a pimple cream commercial. I had a pimple the size of a Skittle on my chin, and it was one of those nasty, throbbing suckers than can’t be popped. It was like a bad roommate: I couldn’t sleep at night because the stupid thing wouldn’t stop talking. Unfortunately for me, it moved in and brought everyone it knew.
I am 29 years old! Pimples are supposed to be part of teenage life, like asking for a date on a piece of folded notebook paper or wearing electric green eyeliner. I was supposed to stop breaking out when I got a driver’s license, or at least when I finished my degree and got a grown up job. Apparently, my hormones didn’t get that memo, and my pores have a party every now and again, when I am under too much strain, too little sleep, and really don’t have extra time to devote to magic with my concealer brush.
This is one of those weeks. If I were a pattern, I’d be swiss dot. If I were a insect, I’d be a ladybug. If I were an ice cream, I’d be –well, I don’t really know what I’d be, but it would be something almost no one orders, like rum raisin.
My face hates me. Why can’t one of the other parts of puberty linger instead, like living a life with zero cellulite or
suddenly going up a cup size?
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