See, that’s the trouble with zits. No matter what you say, no matter what deep thoughts you express, people can’t stop staring at it. "I'm sorry--what did you say? I was distracted by the growth on your face."

Yeah, I have a zit. It’s right there, you can’t miss it, in the middle of my left cheek.

This is actually an unusual zit location for me. Chin, yes. Nose, yes. Middle of my cheek? Not since I was a zit-riddled teenager.

Ugh, I had horrible skin. My father used to reassure me that it would pass. He would tell me that you never see adults with acne, but that’s not really true, is it?

I went to a dermatologist for a while. He injected things into my face. I don’t know what he injected but I can bear witness to the unpleasantness of having a needle in the cheek. Especially a pizza cheek, which hurt already.

He also used dry ice on me, which hurt like a mofo. Do they still do that?

I can’t say any of this torture made the least bit of difference. My face was always red and raw and painful. I had acne until I didn’t have it anymore, although I’ve never stopped getting zits. Now they tend to be isolated embarrassments, though, rather than humiliating colonies.

The week of my wedding I got the mother of all zits on my chin. It required a trip to the dermatologist and even he was impressed.

I still have scars from the worst of it all. If I had lots of money, I’d do whatever it takes to have those suckers sandpapered away. But I don’t, so not only do I have a brand new zit, I also have memories of zits past.

Life is so unfair.

Labels: memoir