Getting them when you were young was the fucking worst. For starters, puberty alone is enough to drive you insane, teens don't need embarrassing marks on their faces to repel the opposite sex and become the subject of ridicule by other competing kids. They were the end of the world. You'd look in the mirror for hours, contemplate picking at them until they burst, and weighed the pros and cons of having a huge whitehead on your face, as opposed to a small red scab. When you had conversations, you assumed people stared at it. You might slather on OXY, or Clearasil, or some other product that you hoped would work, but mostly you just went to school, with breath held, hoping no one would notice the blaring siren on your nose. But, of course, someone always did, and if your school was anything like mine, people would point them out as if you didn't notice, and some would even offer to pick at it for you. If nothing else, they'd share their technique. Always wash your face with hot water first, they said. That opens up the pores. Absolutely embarrassing.
And is getting them as a 33 year old much different? I've been battling one, yes battling, for the past few days. Constantly checking the mirror to see if it's even gotten bigger or smaller, while exploring the rest of my face for possible new landing spots. I try not to touch it in fear of angering it, as if manipulating it will make it grow faster and stronger. Then I hope it doesn't become a permanent fixture on my face, as if that is a possibility. And, of course, I assume I'll come to work, people will point and laugh, and then gather in corners of the office to talk about it. Yeah, I don't have any issues, none at all!
|This episode of the Wonder Years was scarier than anything Stephen King ever came up with.|