What’s THAT On My Face?

Every time my kids tell me that something isn’t fair, I blurt out three words:  ZITS AND WRINKLES.

Because in my world, there is nothing as unjust as having to treat them both on the same face at the same time.  Nothing.  Not even being carded for a bottle of wine I was buying one day when I was also purchasing wrinkle cream, which is a very true and funny story I’ll save for another day.

But back to the appalling state of affairs that is being in your thirties and waking up to a whopper right there on your chin.

“Mom’s got a spot,” I hear.

“It’s not a spot, it’s a pimple,” says the wise one.

And I find myself mumbling the horrors of hormones, reminiscing teenage years and wondering why on this green Earth I haven’t outgrown these things and what I did to deserve this blemished trait.  Surely I must have done something really awful because I’m absolutely certain I’m the only person in the world that has to endure fixing her hair differently to a school choir concert so that the other parents can’t see the eruption on my forehead.  Not to mention the crow’s feet around my eyes when I smile at my kids on stage.

That’s the other part of the ultimate in unfairness: wrinkles. They creep up out of nowhere and permanently attach themselves to your face like a toddler to a leg on the first day of childcare.  And like the toddler, they don’t go away easily, no matter how hard you shake and bribe. These days I’m almost afraid to smile or hear a joke for fear of deepening the troughs that are starting to form around my mouth.

One would think that no one should have to suffer through both of life’s burdens in one fell swoop, but we do.  While I slather wrinkle cream on half of my face, the other half gets doused in drying ointments so I’ve got baby softness over here and over there looks like a flaky alligator.

See, kids?  This is when life isn’t fair.  It’s certainly more unfair than when your brother has 0.02 ounces more apple cider than you do, or when you have to sit through another episode of Dora because at the ripe old age of seven you have sooooo outgrown that baby stuff.

What I wouldn’t give to be seven again, without the concern of “spots” and laugh lines.  I would certainly give up all the apple cider in the world and actually pay attention to the hours of Dora that constantly play in the background.  As long as they don’t make me laugh