There's no gentle way to break this to you, so I'm just going to be blunt: this post is about zits.
Ew. Gross. Sick. Disgusting.
Okay, now we've gotten that out of the way let me shout this loud enough for Karma to hear:
I'm bloody sick of having acne, and if you don't get off your meditating ass and start paying attention to all my good deeds (ah, Karma just don't put on your reading glasses for that task 'kay?) and banish this bad skin of mine, I am going to get you fired from the tribunal of 'Things We Can't See But Still Believe In.'
Is it a good idea to threaten Karma? We'll see. If I wake up tomorrow with leprosy I'll be sure to blog about it so you all can learn from my mistakes. But until tomorrow, let's discuss why I'm threatening Karma. It all started the day I was born because in addition to getting a new baby girl, my parents got a new baby girl with acne. Super score! But it was in my very early teens when acne struck with vengeance, and I like to think that if I was a villain in a comic book (which Karma, I'm totally NOT a villain. Just sayin'!) my villain name would have been Pizza Face.
"Here comes Pizza Face to terrorize small children, just by looking at them!"
I remember going to one babysitting job where the kid opened the door, looked at me, then ran up the stairs yelling that I had chicken pox and he shouldn't be around me. I pretty much wanted to die on the spot, and the parents looked absolutely mortified--like they were raising a terrorist. Which they were: a linguistic terrorist.
My parents took me to a dermatologist who prescribed me some awesome orange and green pills that cleared up the zits. Then when I went off the medicine, the zits came back. Then I went back to the dermatologist; more pills; no zits; off pills; acne; dermatologist. Repeat. Repeat. My dermatologist was a very nice man who sponsored foster children in Africa, and when I went to his office I liked to look at the kids' pictures and read the cards they made for him. This detail about the foster kids in Africa has nothing to do with the story, but I just want Karma to know how closely affiliated I was with this very nice man and his humanitarian actions.
So anyhow, on one visit to the dermatologist he delivered a serious blow: my acne wasn't just going to be teenage acne, but likely adult acne too. And then, to try and pillow the punch he had just landed to my psyche, he said, and I quote, "I know this won't sound like much now, but the oily nature of your skin probably means you won't be prone to developing as many wrinkles as you get older."
What's that you say, Doctor? You say that I will never get wrinkles.
Sounds good to me.
Sounds good to me.
It has been this contorted belief of a wrinkle-free life that has helped me get through having had acne for as long as I can remember. Of course as I've gotten older I definitely don't have as serious an acne problem as I did six years ago, or even three years ago, but I still regularly wake up to discover I have way more zits than I actually want. But that's always been moderately okay, because Karma was on my side offering me an olive branch: if I was going to have a Pizza Face, at least it would be a supple Pizza Face for years and years to come.
But that all changed yesterday morning when I looked in the mirror and noticed I have two faint creases on either side of the bridge of my nose, and two faint creases on either side of my forehead. These creases were NOT there last week.
What the what?!
I have the start of...WRINKLES.
Um Doctor, aren't I supposed to be wrinkle free for life? That is what you said, isn't it? Come on! Doesn't years of enduring these angry red bumps all over my face mean that I'm supposed to get a free pass from aging, and will end up some baby-faced grandmother? All of my contorted beliefs are being proven a lie, and will probably be chiseled into my face, line by line.
The injustice of it all!
So Karma, listen up. I refuse to continue to have acne if in the future I'm just going to end up looking like a Shar Pei anyhow. So blow out the incense, stop paying attention to people who sponsor foster babies in Africa, start paying attention to their former patients, and do something about my acne!
After all Karma, I would hate to have to post this rant about your failure to care about my skin on the Internet, and then appear superficial or something.