Ode to a Zit

I can think of lots of good things about aging. Really, I can. Like, there’s a certain power in calling young men “Young Man.” Those are magic words, I’ve found, like a password into the netherworld between Momdom and Scary-older-woman-land. I find they usually look a little bit terrified of me and do exactly as I say.

But anyway, one of the best things about aging is no longer breaking out. Unless you’re me, of course! If you’re me, you get a zit erupting on your chin which is so huge, if the world floods, Noah will at least have a place to land the ark, ar ar.

But want to know what the final cruelty is about having a zit when you’re old and wrinkled? It doesn’t look like a zit. It looks more like a wart, or maybe one of those mysterious facial things that old people seem to get sometimes. Just…a facial protuberance.

Years ago, my sister accidentally jabbed herself with cuticle scissors. The resulting scab looked enough like a picked pimple that she felt compelled to explain to people that it WASN’T A ZIT. REALLY.

Now I’m debating whether I should tell people that IT’S JUST A ZIT. REALLY.

Aging really does change one’s priorities, doesn’t it?

Acquaintance about finding me an older boyfriend: “Don’t worry—we’ll find you someone who’s extinguished.”