I woke up this morning to find a zit on my prominent nose. Oh, wait — I mean to say I woke up this morning to find a prominent zit on my nose. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but one worth making from my perspective.
So here’s the thing — I am way past the age where I should be getting zits. While emotionally I may be stuck at age 15, chronologically I am several decades past that, and physiologically I’m the equivalent of the hoary character Keir Dullea morphed into at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. When I fill out the health questionnaire at the doctor’s office, I have to ask for a supplementary legal pad in order to list all my ailments.
But back to this zit. Yesterday my face was clear. OK — it was sunburned, and covered in greying stubble, and my crow’s feet are approaching actual-size, and I could style sideburns from my ear hair — but blemish-wise there was nothing to inventory. This morning, as I completed my toilette, I saw something white and bulging from the side of my right nostril. I thought at first it was an errant crumb from the muffin I’d buzz-sawed my way through along with my morning coffee from Cumbys, but upon closer inspection (meaning I had to remove my glasses in order to focus on the macro image in the bathroom mirror), I saw it was a pimple. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I could see it growing before my myopic eyes. I feared an eruption akin to when Woody Allen’s robot character makes instant pudding in Sleeper.
I won’t go into any detail regarding how I chose to eliminate the zit from its perch on my proboscis — other than to say I utilized a method all dermatologists abhor and yet everyone who’s ever had a zit attempts. Afterwards, I applied salicylic acid, triple antibiotic ointment, pancake makeup and a spritz of Windex (on the bathroom mirror, to — you know…).
Now, of course, I am desperately trying to figure out what I did that led to the emergence of the spot. Too many saturated fats in my diet? Something lacking in my nightly facial regimen? A hormonal imbalance, or delayed adolescence (both of which raise worries much more significant than a pimple)? Or was it due to something more fundamental (literally) — a warning from God in response to some heinous infraction? I considered what I might have done recently that the Almighty would inflict such a blight upon me:
- I dumped all our plastics in one recycling container, without sorting out the #2s that are supposed to go into a separate bin.
- I bought a book of stamps at the post office but asked the clerk to ring them up individually so I could save a dime by using my debit card on each transaction.
- I told my wife I’d washed her yoga clothes separately, on the delicate cycle, when I’d really just tossed them in with the towels.
- I apologized for a minor transgression about which a friend had expressed his dismay, when I really thought he was being kind of a dick about it.
After running through these scenarios, I decided He (or She, or They — I’m open) would not get into a tizzy over such petty infractions. In a world filled with threats of war, cataclysmic storms, political rancor, and hundreds of professional athletes choosing to take a knee as someone caterwauls the national anthem — the Lord wouldn’t be concerned with singling me out for punishment just because I’d failed to come to a complete stop before proceding through an intersection… right?
I’ll stop the theological self-interrogation at this point, since I need to head back into the bathroom and check the mirror again. I think I’m coming down with pink eye.
Somewhere in The Good Book (Matthew I think) it says the rain falls on the just and the unjust and the sun shines on the just and the unjust. Substitute ‘pimple’ for rain and sun and I think you’ll feel better about your blemish. If not, you may want to go for a battery of tests to see if you have a hormonal imbalance. But there is a risk they will discover other imbalances, so be forewarned.
Thanks for your insights, Molly. Although — I think John Grisham has written some good books also, and not just the one by this Matthew fellow.
I’ll try not to hold it against you that you like John Grisham books, John. LOL.
Oh, sorry – I meant John the Baptist.
What a relief!