As I gaze into the mirror, I shake my head, slightly exasperated. Beneath the surface of my skin, a sore area is beginning to bubble up. Cover up, foundation and lotion just do not seem to be doing the trick to shrink the blemish nor boost my confidence. Desperation is seriously beginning to reign here. Every person that I see will notice it, no doubt about it. Forget about hiding it. Gosh darn it! How come I can’t keep my fingers off of it? I keep touching it, squeezing it, pushing it down, wishing that it would just go away. Jolts of pain hit that spot in my face over and over. “Keep your hands off of it,” I repeat to myself endlessly.
Less than a minute later, I am touching it again. Memories of high school flood my mind as I feel the hard, sore bump underneath my index finger. Never once in my teenage years did I have anyone outside of my head mock me for a less than perfect complexion, yet with clarity I can hear the dark self talk that often filled my young thoughts. Often times, we are our worst critic, and no doubt this was the case then and is the case today.
“Please, get it together,” I beg of my adult self, who just happens to reliving all my past insecurities all because of one little pimple. “Quit acting like you are fourteen and behave like a grown-up!” I chastise myself. Remembering that my mom always tell me how pretty my smile is, I form my lips into an upward curve in a desperate last attempt to salvage my morning, only to have my dimples push the sore spot up and create more pain.
So much for my smile. There goes my only hope of prettiness today. Undressing myself, I climb back into bed, and tuck myself into the covers. Verbal assaults tumble through my head, as I realize how ridiculous my behavior is. Well, some days, it’s just too much to face the world as a grown up with a big old pimple right in the middle of my face. Xena Warrior Princess would climb back into bed. You would too, so stop judging. Zits suck.