I have an enormous pimple on my chin. My skin is otherwise clear, making the gigantic, protruding mass beneath my mouth that much more obvious.
It is the first thing – and, sometimes, the only thing – I see when I look in the mirror.
I am an expert with makeup. Origins Spot Remover (to reduce redness, dry it out, and ultimately, hopefully, kill it) is followed by Chanel Hydromax moisturizer (so it doesn’t get too dry and therefore flaky and peeling), which is covered with Estee Lauder Equalizer in Ivory (to even my pale complexion), which will be topped with Revlon loose powder in soft beige (to eliminate the shine that tends to draw the eye to the pimple). On an ordinary pimple, this combination gives the illusion that my skin is flawless from hairline to jawbone. But this pimple? It is a monster. Expensive cosmetics and the artistic application thereof are no match for it. There is nothing I can apply to hide the fact that it is sticking out of my face.
As horrifying as it is to me when it is covered in products, it is even more hideous when my face is clean. It is red, a bold shade of crimson, right there on my face, regardless of the fact that I have been very good and have refrained from picking. And, it is shiny – luminescent, almost – because the skin in that area has been stretched taut over the blemish. And it is right there, on a spot on my face that cannot be concealed by clever angling of my head.
But, oh, how I try. I spent my work day tilting my head a little bit down, a little to the right. But it’s there, no doubt about it. And I fear that the tilting may only put it at a better-highlighted angle.
But I can deal with customers chuckling at my unfortunate imperfection. Who cares what they think? But my boyfriend: That’s another story.
First of all, I’m still at a stage where I want to impress him constantly. I want him to think of me as desirable, terribly attractive and sexxxy. I do not want him to think of my pimple. Secondly, his skin is so beautiful, so clear, we can’t commiserate. Worse, I can't even say, “yeah, this pimple’s bad, but I remember the one he had last month! Whoa!” to make myself feel better. And it’s just embarrassing. Plain and simple. I’m supposed to be his hot new girlfriend, not the victim of unfortunate adult acne. It makes me self-conscious.
So the time I spent with him last night was an exercise in camouflage; the blemish was appropriately covered, but I still tried to spend the majority of time with him arranged so that his eyes could not fall on the garish flaw on my chin. I spent a lot of time with my head on his chest, my face well below his eye level, ensuring that he was unable to look at it. But when a wraslin’ match/tickle fight began, resistance was futile. The tossing and maneuvering had rubbed off all of the meticulously applied makeup, and soon I was pinned so that I was forced to face him. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact that I had been pinned and was therefore losing, or the fact that I could do nothing to hide my face.
When the fight was finally over (no winners – Just a truce, followed by an amazed Billy declaring, “Damn, girl, you are strong!”) I retreated to the restroom to wash my face. Trying to cover up the pimple had long since fallen by the wayside and with my face clean, I returned, defeated, to the bedroom.
“This zit is killing me,” I said as I entered the room. “And, for the record,” I noted, unzipping my makeup bag (for the aforementioned Spot Remover) with one hand and pointing to the pimple with the other, “this is your fault. This is what I get when you get the bright idea to grow a goatee.”
“Oh, so now you want to blame your skin problems on me?” He gave me a sarcastic grin.
“If I can, yes.” I crawled over him to my side of the bed.
“Babe, it’s just a pimple.” He leaned over and kissed me. I instantly felt better.
But I was still glad when he turned off the light.