I realize I was acting like a thirteen year old yesterday. What with the eye rolling.
The sleeping in.
The oh my gosh, did you, like, see how short her skirt was?
However, I did not expect you to follow suit. When I awoke this morning to find a pimple on my forehead, I felt very angry with you. Betrayed, even.
We’ve been through a lot together. The tweezing. The waxing. The squeezing. The chemical-laden, animal-tested, pore clogging makeup. You’ve forgiven it all.
You forgave me for slathering myself with oil and baking in the sun every summer for ten years.
You didn’t punish me when I went all four years of high school without washing my makeup off before bed.
Not that it’s been a one way street. I forgave you for the chin flare-ups in junior high that always occurred at The. Most. Inopportune. Time. (Come to think of it, that may have been a rather wise maneuver on your part, causing me to keep over-eager, pubescent boys at arm’s distance during the Valentine’s Day Dance of eighth grade. Well played, epidermis. Well played.)
I forgot your betrayal when you resisted my tummy’s attempt to make room for my babies and left unsightly marks to forever remind me of your disapproval– in spite of all the cocoa butter I applied. Whatever. I’m over that.
A pimple, though? Really?
I was coming to terms with the vertical line on my forehead. I’m a grown woman, and proud of it. I’ve accepted wrinkles are part of what is to come and plan to age gracefully. Really. Last week, when I sat amongst some fiftyish year olds, warning me of the dry, dusty skin to come, I vowed to douse you with even more moisturizer. And I’ve kept up my end of the bargain.
And now this.
Make up your mind. Am I an anguished teen or a wise old mom? I refuse to be both. Do you hear me? Refuse.
Don’t worry, I’m willing to work this out. I’ll forgive you for this little incident, and you won’t punish me for the tanning bed scandal of 2000.