It sucks to get older. I think that's a truth universally acknowledged. At least among everyone I've talked to.
But there is one thing I was really looking forward to about getting older, and I must say that so far I've been incredibly disappointed.
Pimples. I haz em. I was always told that they would go away as I got older. And the little pus-filled bastards insist on hanging out and setting up camp on my face.
Now thank God they aren't as bad as they were when I was in middle and high school. Because if I still had it that bad, well, I shudder at that thought. It wasn't bad enough to earn a nickname like Crater Face (again, THANK GOD), but that didn't stop the self-esteem from dipping into angsty teen levels.
When I was a wee little Mochaface and in the 7th grade, we were leaving gym class when a couple of girls called out to me. So I turned around and in chorus they said, "Oxycute 'em!" I was mortified. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter, but clearly it affected me if all these long years later I still remember it. Bitter? Not me. Though just desserts were eventually served, as at the end of that year, we all moved onto 8th grade while the main tormentor had to stay back and repeat the 7th. Not that I took any pleasure in that. Okay. Maybe a little.
Still, now that I'm an adult I really wish I didn't have these teenage reminders popping up on my chin or forehead. Granted it is only at certain times of the month (THANK you Mother Nature) so there's generally a couple weeks where I am blissfully pimple free. So there's that.