One semester at grad school, something terrible happened. I grew a zit on my chin that was the size of an elephant. (I just googled “pimple” so I could insert an appropriate picture. After seeing what came up, I want to vomit. Whatever you do, don’t google “pimple.”)
My darling grad school friends dubbed my zit the “Vermont Zit”—because our school was in Vermont. You’d think people in a creative writing program would come up with something more…creative, but I understand. They were busy working on novel titles, not pimple pet names.
The Vermont Zit was so big that people actually came up to me and told me they liked my Sarah Jessica Parker mole. I toyed with the idea of coloring it in with brown eyeliner pencil, just to give it some distinction. But it was the middle of summer and I worried about sweating it off; no one likes a mole with a muddy trail. Not even those nature-loving Vermonters.
It took me a few months to get rid of that damn zit. Two months and 102 tubes of Clearasil.
Fast forward five years to RIGHT NOW. I’ve sprouted the Vermont Zit just in time for my presentation. And I’m pissed. I thought turning 35 meant no more pimply pimples. Given my last post—in which I begged God to save me from my public speaking self—I have to wonder, what the hell? Other than blinding people with the light reflecting off my zit as I stand at the podium, I can’t think of any divine reason for this zit’s existence.
Except that I’ve just blown 30 minutes blogging about it instead of practicing my presentation in front of the mirror. But can you blame me?