Mount Vesuvius sits on my chin.
You can bet model Denise Richards, who’s the same age as me, hasn’t had to deal with this scale of acne. Mind you, she’s had to deal with Charlie Sheen, which makes us even.
I’d show you an uncensored photo of me and my Zit-pocalypse, but I have standards to uphold on this blog.
Below, however, is the censored version. This is how I’ve been walking around my house for the past 36 hours, not including the incubation period, which has been 30 years.
Here is how my family responded when I lowered my scarf:
- Chris, husband of nearly 13.7 years, said: “It’s fine. But do me a favour. Just say “My little pretties.” Today, he followed up with an extension of his Wicked–Witch–of–the–West reference:
- UPDATE: Vegas is now taking odds on whether or not our marriage will make it to 13.8 years.
- Vivian, age 9, said, “Mom, that pimple is really bad.” Then she asked, “Can you turn sideways? Wow. I can really see it now.” I turned back and faced her. “It’s the same shade of red as your lips.” This morning she added, “I can’t believe it! It’s even bigger than last night.”
- William, also age 9 said, “I’ve never seen a pimple so big.” Then he went upstairs to see Chris in order to confide how much “Mommy’s pimple” grossed him out. The final thing Will said was, “Dad, she should go to the doctor. It’s as big as two grapes.”
I’m thinking of starting a Kickstarter campaign to get a night alone at a hotel. Or an appointment with a dermatologist.
Here’s hoping that Mount Vesuvius doesn’t erupt while I’m teaching teens tomorrow.