That’s Zit

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

How old do you need to be before you stop getting zits?

 

The answer, at least in my case, is: “Older than a post-retirement age I’d prefer not to mention.” To customize an old top-40 radio slogan, the zits just keep coming.

 

On the positive side, the zits erupting lately aren’t in the same league as those that made my teen years miserable. (Okay, for the record, my no-one-understands-me attitude and general teenage snarkiness also contributed to self-imposed misery, but zits didn’t help.) The zits I get at this age aren’t nearly as large or as bright. And they don’t bring along a crop of friends. But still, despite facial scrubs and special creams, fresh air and healthy foods, they come.

 

Back in those teen years I grew out my bangs to cover platoons of pimples on my forehead. I kept my hair shoulder-length and never shoved it behind my ears because that would reveal lurking zits. I tucked my chin into turtleneck sweaters or scarves.

 

But zits are like lies—they’re often difficult to cover up. Especially when they erupt in extremely visible places.

 

And zits are extroverts. They love to pop up at special events. They never miss the opportunity to show up for a hot date, an important job interview, a conference presentation, or a wedding.

 

A particularly pointy one, the color of a ripe tomato, appeared on the tip of my nose on the morning of a friend’s aisle walk in the 60s. My bridesmaid’s dress was bright green and included a wide hair ribbon to match. The contrast in colors made the blemish more obvious.

 

Now, trust me, there are places on your face where you can apply a thick layer of zit-hiding cream and it will stick because the skin is smooth and dry. And there are places where the facial terrain is pitted, creased, wrinkled, or oily, and those skin-toned creams crack, clump, or slide off.

 

There are instances where hot packs can speed up the progress of zit, or cold packs can slow it. And there are instances where taking a drastic step and popping a pimple can mitigate the problem. But, trust me once again, the zit has to cooperate. It has to be ready to give up. And that one wasn’t.

 

As the hour approached, the zit swelled until it felt like I’d taken possession of Pinocchio’s lie-activated wooden nose and spent the day claiming to like beets and Richard Nixon. When it was my turn to walk down the aisle, I felt like that little reindeer guiding Santa’s sleigh through the fog.

 

I destroyed my copies of the wedding photos the moment they arrived. But memories of that day, like zits, keep popping up.