Spots with a side order of wrinkles. Who knew that was in the post? I’m not about to start droning on about adult acne but, rather, the absolute belter that appears on my chin once a month. At that time; that time when I feel desolate and fat and irritated and repellent anyway so thanks, Universe, for sending me the cherry on the chin.
It starts with a faint pain and a hint of hardness that soon develops a pulse; a throb; a totally un-uplifting rhythm all of its own. The small steel drum from hell pulsating as I finger it unwisely, encountering the odd chin hair along the way just to reassure me of my own desirability. This particular flavour of disgustingness is new. The monthly chin eruption feels like some sort of penance. It appeared on my body menu of delights last year along with breast sweat and things getting stuck in teeth. Anyone else obsessed with interdental sticks? They currently represent one of my most significant and satisfying relationships.
The thing is, there’s something undignified about great, scabby (because I am apparently not too old to perform self-surgery and make it all many times worse) eruption. It feels dirty and not in a good way. Spots, like dirty hair and laddered tights, have the power to make anyone over 35 look unhinged.
I used to care about spots because I thought they made me look unfuckable. Now I wonder if they make me look sectionable. And, way back when, spots lasted for what? Three days. Now? Weeks. Long enough, in fact, to subside only when the next one begins to tingle. This is not how things were meant to turn out…