The 40 year puberty

I’ve been away for a few days, and I’m going to tell you one of the things I did. I put olive oil and rosehips in a crock pot and I fried rosehips. And I’m going to smear it on my face. I am willing to rub rosehip-infused olive oil on my face to heal it. In fact, I might rub feces on my face if I knew that my acne would be controlled by it.

I really don’t understand this movement in my body to develop cystic acne. It’s relatively new to me, having developed in the last 10 years or so. I don’t have a lifetime of experience dealing with it but what a literal pain it is! In fact, every vacation picture I have in the last ten years isn’t complete by an angry spot on my face. I’m saying cheese, and the acne snarls like Billy Idol at the camera. If it got any bigger, it would need its own passport.

I don’t think this is right. I’m almost 40. 40. Puberty may as well have been during the 80s (oh wait, it was) and as forgotten as the neon sweat suits and crimped hair.  And Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

But I digress.

Not only have I got my kids going through this, but me too! This isn’t the family bonding experience I had envisioned when I had my kids. The vacations yes, the elephant-on-my-face-that-provides-shade, not so much.

Fortunately, I’m old enough to give a very small percentage of a f*ck about the acne. No use in wasting a perfectly good, whole f*ck on something like acne. I have accepted that I have to have this on my face sometimes. But that also means I am going to boil stuff, and infuse whatever to rub on my face.

And heaven forbid we forget Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

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