“Stop digging a hole in your face”
“Don’t stay up too late”
I hear both of these phrases from JB with annoyingly predictable frequency.
Annoying because I’m adult, and predictable because I consistently ignore his sage advice.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am a compulsive pimple popper. Perhaps hyperfocus explains my tendency to pop, squeeze, pick.
Perhaps the blame lies with early puberty, where 10 year old me rocked both bra and acne. Innumerable life lessons circle around a childhood filled with horrifically permed red hair, boobs, and acne.
Karma hooked me up in high school with clear skin, and those boobs became a definite asset. Ahem.
But the appearance of the tiniest of red spots on my face sends me careening toward a magnifying mirror with sharpened nails on the ready. Which then makes the tiny spot a giant spot. Which then makes me poke at it some more. Which makes it…
you see where this goes, right?
Right this very minute I have two giant zits on the side of my face. Yes, this is my big Wednesday issue.
–Despite strong empirical evidence against effectiveness, my hands keep straying toward the bumps, moving toward the pop, squeeze, picking cycle.
–I have managed to NOT pick at the nose ring bump, rendering any other avoidance of face picking to null.
–Laying off the make-up to help the nose ring heal (make up is technically dirt, you know) results in zits just hanging off my face, unfettered by paint.
Leaving me with no other alternative.