What the WHAT?!?! (aka Adult Acne)

Can you count the zits on my
face? I'm not smiling so you
can see them all. And because
I don't love acne.

How the hell did I get these zits? And before anyone out there starts it, I'm not pregnant. And I hate that after the age of 25, every time something bizarre happens to my body and I make it public knowledge, I actually have to answer that question. It's almost as bad as being in a bad mood and having to constantly defend against the "Are you on your period?" question.

So, strike that from your list: Not pregnant. And yet, here I am 30-something years old with a huge breakout of acne on my face. And those in the picture are a) covered with make-up and b) from a pic shot yesterday before Mount St. Ashley really erupted. That doesn't even touch on the fact that I cut bangs especially because I could cover my forehead zits (and there are two--TWO--of them covered in that pic, too).

I never used to get zits as a teenager. Well, at least not like this. I'd get the occasional flair up, but it would go away. My brother, on the other hand, had the misfortune of having severe acne to deal with. I would taunt him when I was 13 with "At least I don't have ACNE!". He would then reply "I didn't have any either. Until I turned 14." He was manacle like that.

And before you get on my case about being so mean to my older brother, you have to realize that growing up I felt like of the two of us, I completely got the short end of the genetic stick. My brother is tall, always been naturally thin, exceptionally smart, rarely seemed like he had to try to gain friends, and generally was my hero. So as someone square in the middle of losing my battle against weight gain who had to study math for hours to get good grades, and who was teased mercilessly by girls for "having the bought the same pair of shoes" as another in the clique (true story), I was happy to have at least ONE advantage on him.

And here I am years later as a pizza face. The only thing I can attribute it to was that I bought a new foundation primer. It's the same brand as the primer I was using, but this version had "radiance" added in (aka shimmer-but the nice kind, nice like stripper glitter) and didn't come in oil-free. Chef encouraged me to suck up the primer as a loss and go get my old oil-free stuff. So I did. Today.

In the mean time, I'm stuck with a crippling case of adult acne that I would love to stay home and bury my head in a bowl of astringent until it clears up, but no such luck. And I watch those ProActiv commercials with new interest now. I hear them and perk up, but then I hear them say "In 90 days, my skin cleared up!". Um, my skin usually clears up in 90 days. That's not what I call great results. Am I wrong?

I gotta go preserve my sexy.

"Let's Make Christmas Last"

"Christmas goes too quickly," my mom said. I don't think she was saying it to me. I think she was saying it to my dad at the other end of the table. "Let's make Christmas last this year."

He moved the casserole around on his plate and took a swig of the cola in his glass. "How do you suppose we do that?"

"Well," she said. Clearly she'd been waiting to unveil this idea. "I think on Christmas morning we should only open one present per hour. That way we won't have everything open in a few minutes of wrapping paper flurry. We can enjoy the day."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. She had perked my attention at the mention of presents. "Wait?!?" I cried. My brother had also caught on to this. "One present every hour?!?" he said.

"Yes. That way we have a whole day of Christmas instead of just a few minutes." She had put her fork and knife down and folded her hands together over the plate.

"But we'll still get Santa's presents in the morning, right?" said my older brother. "Because Santa doesn't wrap gifts."

"Why would Santa not come in the morning?" I said. "Santa doesn't have anything to do with this."

"Santa will be the same as always," mom said. "But our family presents are one per hour." And with that, it was decided.

***

The carcasses of new toys lay strewn about. Wire twist ties that had held legs down and oddly shaped cardboard lay about in the aftermath of Santa's visit. After the excitement of Santa had worn off , I was already jonesing for another present high. 

"Mom, can we open presents now?" I whined. She sighed and rolled her eyes a little. 

"Yes, pick one, and make it a good one because it's gotta last for the next hour," she said. I made my way under the tree and immediately started feeling boxes. I had learned a few Christmases before that I could identify a Barbie by feeling for the flexible plastic front on the box. I found one and chose it as my present.

My brother started crawling under the tree but then my dad got up in his bathroom and ubiquitous moccasin slippers. "Let me chose yours, Matt," he said. He crouched under the tree and pulled out a clandestine-looking box. "This is it."

We made a mad dash through the paper. Ripping as fast as we could. I caught glimpse of a glittery skirt and knew I had an evening Barbie, one of my most covetous kinds. My shrieks were only outmatched by my brother's.

"Now this is for both of you," my dad said. My mom looked less than amused. It seemed this her idea was taking a turn she hadn't anticipated. 

I peered over his shoulder. It was a Nintendo. THE Nintendo. The first version ever made and probably the only one in a three-hour radius.  My brother took off running for his room with the Nintendo box under his arm. My dad got up to follow.

"I should probably see if he needs any help," he said. I soon ran after them both. It took my brother a few minutes to set up the Nintendo but once he did, we were mesmerized. It came with controllers and gun and Duck Hunt. We took turns shooting our virtual Christmas dinner. My mother came back what seemed like a mere minute later.

"It's time for your next present, kids," she said. We barely looked up.

"Um, right now?" Matt said. His eyes never left the duck that floated across the TV screen.

"Yes." she said through gritted teeth. "Now."

We spent the hours in the day running back and forth from the tree to the TV in between games. We opened our last presents about 14 hours after we began, each hour our enthusiasm dwindling and my mother's eyes less shining. 

The next year, we tore through the presents like usual. 

When I Was Fearless

When Chef and I were swimming the other night, I relayed to him a story from my childhood. I don't exactly remember how we got on it, but it was a story about a trip I took with my mom (and probably some other kids too, my brother I'm sure, I just don't remember who else was there) to Kramer's Lake. Kramer's lake was clearly a body of water, as the name implies, but also included some water slides and big trapeze, as well.

I think I was about 10 years old and all I wanted to do was swing out on that trapeze. Fly through the air and land in the water below. I'm not sure if my mom told me specifically not to do it or if she just communicated that with her eyes and demeanor. Either way, I ignored it.

So picture me as a not yet five foot girl, standing on top of a large trapeze that was on an elevated platform and landed in waters, the depths of which were unknown (at least to me). We had a pool, so I was a pretty good swimmer. None of this seemed to matter more than the thrill of the swing and release. I had to stretch my little toes as far off the platform as I could to grab the trapeze bar. I had just laid my fingertips on top of it when I heard a familiar voice yelling in the distance. I can see her now in a colorful, yet sensible one-piece bathing suit, her shoulder length hair pulled back in a pony tail, and large sunglasses (before they were really fashionable). Her arms were waving and she was yelling "DON'T GO! DON'T GO!".

The "lifeguard" who was watching the lake was distracted by the woman who was walking as fast as she could through thigh-high lake water to get to me. I used the distraction to my advantage and swung off the platform, letting go at the crest of my pendulum swing. I landed with a thud in the water and swam--albeit slowly--to my mother. At that point, I figured the lecture was probably going to be the same if I had gone or just prepared to go. The embarrassment of being called out in front of all of these older kids was more painful than any landing I could've taken, so I let 'er fly.

"You're too short." "You're too young." "We don't know how deep that water is." All were reasons that mom said made the trapeze too dangerous for me, but okay for my 13 year old brother. None of them really mattered, because I had already gotten what I wanted. A moment to disobey and FLY!

When I told the story to Chef, I said "That was back when I was young. And fearless."

Since then I've decided it's time to get a little more fearless again. We'll see what that ends up meaning.