For many years, I've gotten pretty used to people observing my face as if they were looking for the corresponding constellation to their horoscope on an astrological map.
My pimples are the last thing I see in the mirror before I go to sleep. I really wish that, instead, the only spots on my face I'll ever have to worry about are the ones that appear on my window reflection at night when the stars decide to show off their sheen.
I guess you can say I live a pretty lavish life, rich in stares from people who make poor eye contact with me while I talk because they're counting every little bump and pustule on my face. Every zit I fail to zap, and pimple I refuse to pop turn into dots that connect and spell, "look away."
If you've never felt this way about your skin, you're allowed to think that I'm overreacting. Also, I'm sure you're also livin' the life. Except, you're rich in stares from people who have the same look on their face when they can't seem to find any words on a crossword puzzle.
Hold up — are you telling me out of envy that having less-to-non-problematic skin isn't so great anyway because we draw blanks on people's faces?
Yes, I do envy you. I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for my having to publicize my personal pimplums. Oh, shoot — I meant to say problems. What I'm trying to say is; I am not totally disregarding the fact that maybe you have baby-butt skin because you clear out (no pun intended) stressors of physical insecurity by avidly sticking to a high-intensity skincare routine.
I could be right; I could be wrong. What you're probably right about is my needing to make peace with my lumps and bumps. Now what you're probably wrong about are the "duh" suggestions you're about to float my way: Wear makeup less often. Try this cream. Throw away that brand of face wash.
Even if it was never your intention to think that way about me, I blame the ten years (and counting) of uninvited guests on my visage for eternally delaying my chance to practice "self-confidence." It really is all a genetic thing.
L.O.L. The last sentence you just read is a lie. Well, sort of. Long story short, I started dealing with breakouts when I was 11 years old. It wasn't until later down the road I finally came to peace that having problematic skin works in my best interest because:
1. I have lots of company when I look in the mirror
There's some sarcasm there.
2. Trust me, I know now better than ever that no one out there is actually sick and twisted enough to only pay attention to my zits.
A funny thing that my little brother said to me during a face-to-face conversation when his forehead suddenly became a topographic volcano map was, "Hello? My eyes are down here." Now if this pimple were to pop right then and there, boy its flow would have been high in viscosity. Should I even explain the animation below that I chose to describe that monstrosity?
I know; why did I dare expose my little brother in that way? If you look at my face at profile angle against the light, the outline of my cheeks and forehead is closer to resembling a city skyline than that of the flatlands of the Midwest. So I get it.
There I go again, exaggerating my acne. (Although, what I just said attests the fact that real-life Photoshop isn't a thing. No matter how expensive your foundation is, hun, you're not gonna flatten those lumps and bumps.)
Welp, I guess that pretty much sums up all the T.M.I. (too much Irysh) glory I had to squeeze out for you today.