I’m 37 and have a pimple on my face.
Not just a pimple, a Mount Vesuvius of hate and rage right on my cheek near my nose.
Surely this should have stopped happening now. Surely the way I dealt with pimples when I was a youngster should have evened me out in some lovely karmic cycle that would reward me with the skin of an adult in my quite clearly adult years. Back when I was fifteen I would be afflicted with the odd pimple here or there and I always accepted it as a part of growing up. I was lucky enough not to suffer from acne; which was twice as lucky as I was an early shaver. I had to start shaving in high school because it had gotten to the point where the moustache on my lip looked like a caterpillar had crawled there in my sleep and never woken up. Thank god no one ever actually believed it was a caterpillar and yelled at my moustache in the off chance the poor thing did a little poo out of fright. So not suffering from acne was definitely a bonus for the novice shaver.
Instead I would have one or two at most pop up on my chin, cheek or around my mouth. Enough to be mildly embarrassing but not too bad that you ever thought it would not go away. And as I said before I always just accepted them as a part of growing up. A part of the transformation from ugly duckling into suave and sophisticated swan about town.
Now I have this second head growing on my face. Even BP would look at it and throw their hands in the air knowing there is no way they could cap this baby. It is so big I can barely raise my head in the morning, needing a stick to get me to an upright position so I can breathe properly. On the tram I am reduced to wearing a bag over my head as delightful children throw rotten fruit at me. I’ve stumbled through the city declaring, “I am not an animal” but the upward inflection suggests otherwise.
The few times I’ve spoken to people I notice they don’t make eye contact with me. My pal Lehmo couldn’t stop staring at it today over breakfast, fascinated and repulsed all at the same time. I bet he wish he hadn’t ordered the eggs after he saw the one spreading over my face.
The irony is that it is has popped up at a time when I have been getting a fairly decent amount of exercise and eating quite well. What a delicious treat it is to know that no matter how you look after yourself sometimes the universe just decides to strike you with the mark of Satan himself. I can feel it on my face and fear that if it gets any bigger over night it might cut off my ability to breathe through my nose and gag me in my sleep. Worst still I might roll over on to it with such force that it will take out my bedroom wall and leave my head exploding like Marvin’s in “Pulp Fiction”. Either way it is disgusting and distressing all at the same time.
Good on my past for showing up again. Maybe my fashion sense can go back there as well. I’ll wake up wearing oversized shirts, jeans with rips all the way through them and the belief that Rick Astley will be making hit records forever. That would surely make my pimple feel right at home and give me the look I’ve sub consciously longed to return to.
To top it off I have shooting tomorrow on my final day for the Librarians. How nice to know I can have a future record of it to look back on when I am old and greyer. Fingers crossed I’ll have one then too that I can compare. Maybe I can even taunt it by saying, “Ha! You think you’re something? Check out this beast,” and with that I can switch on my episode of the Librarians and show the first piece of Australian TV in 3D…all because of my nasty, red friend.
16th June, 2010