I always thought when I was younger that at some point as I aged, clear skin would just be a normal part of my life. Teen acne would be a distant memory and I could relish old age with all of it’s acne-free goodness…and liver spots. I figured it was pretty reasonable to assume that by the time I turned 30 I would no longer have to deal with a splotch on my face here and there. In fact, I just assumed that Estee Lauder was some sort of skin goddess who made it possible for women to look be-you-ti-full beyond all possibility.
Ahem – Where is my perfect skin??
The thing is aging shows up on your face rather quickly in the form of crow’s feet, wrinkled brow, laugh lines, tightened lips (to name a few) and I don’t think that dealing with the occasional breakout should be a part of it. I’ve got enough to deal with without having to reach for my tiny tube of coverup every now and again. Typically, I have to reach for that item in the middle of each big project I’m assigned to.
I wash, I exfoliate, I tone, I exfoliate some more, I lather on moisterizer and groundbreaking “night creams” that will somehow turn my face into the Amazing Youth-Defying Act of 2009. I drink water – LOTS of water – and take vitamins. I stay out of the sun as much as possible. I’ve taken up yoga and guitar to relieve my stress from time to time. And running too. Only, running actually wreaks havoc on my sensitive epidermis [side note: do you remember that silly joke we all loved in elementary school? “Uh oh, your epidermis is showing!” Why did we think we were so funny?], especially when wearing a visor/hat or anything next to my skin. Can’t sweat just cleanse the body instead of inspire new breakouts? Sigh…
Tonight my kid even started to point out my flaws. Well, at least that was my first impression. We were sitting down for dinner and he starts to stare at me intently. He leans forward, propping up his head in his hands, elbows planted into the tablecloth, furrows his brow and squints for a few seconds.
“Mom, I can see the future in your pimples.”
I stopped eating and dropped my fork.
“Excuse me – what??? What did you just say to me?”
He leans back and shrugs, points to his eyeball and says, “You know, your pimples. I can see all the way to next week in them.”
“You mean pupils – not pimples.”
“Oh yeah…that’s what I meant!”
Relief washed over me (while my hands did an ever-so-subtle sweep of my face – was I really breaking out? Eeek! Thankfully, NO) and just a yoctosecond (that’s for you, Al) later, I busted up laughing. Thank heavens for pupils. NOT pimples.