I have a zit on my forehead.
Normally this would not be something I’d regale you with, O readers, since A) it’s icky, and B) despite being twenty-six, my adolescent acne never really vanished, only went mostly dormant, so it’s not really an event. I’m not one of those unfortunate individuals who looks like the surface of Mars, thank god, but at certain times of the month, I do break out. I blame the birth control pills–they’re supposed to control acne, but in a minor segment of the population (namely mine) they do rather the opposite. My mother tells me that the advantage to suffering this indignity for the first thirty odd years is that your skin is more elastic in later years, but I really don’t care–when I get old, I plan to go dramatically gray, wear exciting hats and purple shirts, drink martinis and curse like a pirate with Tourette’s, and if my face doesn’t resemble canyon country, I’ll lose the total effect.
But anyway, this zit.
If you’ve ever had a really unpleasant zit in this location, you know that it’s like a friggin’ third eye in your forehead. People make eye contact with it, then eventually drag their eyes back down front and center. Were it summer, I could wear a tank top and go for the eye-contact trifecta–zit, face, cleavage–but I suppose I gotta deal with the cards I’m handed.
Attempts to conceal the offender behind makeup are generally futile, since it just looks as if your third eye is wearing a little flesh colored hat. Fortunately, working at home means that I’m only self-conscious about it when I go out for Coke and package mailing, and having worked retail in the past, I know the great secret of retail–if you don’t kick up a fuss, the clerks don’t see you, couldn’t pick you out of a line-up five minutes later, and wouldn’t bat an eyelash if you had a rhinocerous growing out of your forehead, let alone a belligerant pore. So it’s not that big a deal, but damnit, I felt like complaining anyway.