This morning I saw a ghost in the mirror. My face. The same face I had when I was sixteen. Yes, yes, add the wrinkles and the grey hair along the hairline. But it was the same damn face. The soda bottle glasses. The pores oozing oil on overdrive. And the pimples. Huge humunguous pustules erupting as I watched on every available spare centimeter. Huge gobs of pimples morphing into a galactic pimple cluster. And those were my hands back to sixteen just waiting to pick them and squeeze the damn pus out, so that the skin could get back to some semblance of being normal without seeming like I was the pre version of some pimple eraser ad.
The brat didnt help by shrieking in horror when I went to kiss him good morning. “Mamma,” he squealed in absolute unadulterated disgust. “Go wash face.” This is his patent dialogue when one has applied some ucky goeey mask of varied stinky ingredients hoping for one of them ingredients to do justice to the money one has paid for the damn tube and make me look beautiful. Alas, am still to discover the miracle tube. Right now concealer is the best miracle I can do with. That, or the burkha.
Went through the medical cabinet to find no pimple cream. Come on, I am past 35, one doesnt expect acne to hit one post adolescence. One doesnt stock these things. The only things one has right now in medical cabinets are practical things like anti wrinkle creams, Vicks Vaporub and an assorted medley of muscle and joint pain balms. And miracle creams to ensure deep sleep. And creams for haemorroids and the like of which I will not gross you out with. Therefore, one decided to improvise and daubed toothpaste all over. The husband grinned wickedly. Ah my allure. How can this man even think of straying with such a siren in his bedroom! I had long broken rule number one on “retaining your sensual allure” and done grosser things like epilating hands and legs while the man was in the room trying to watch television, so there was no fear of losing any further sensual appeal. Already lost it, and havent bothered with the police report or an ad in the lost and found columns.
To come back to sebum encrusted pores now oozing pus as pustules, the toothpaste stayed on for the hour before the bath when the face was washed. Obviously, an hour is no good to tackle pimples which need scouring detergent and toilet bowl strength cleaner, to be applied with fiercely bristled brush for maximum effect. Therefore have brushed on a paste of sunblock and concealer and hope the inch thick pancake levels out the face a bit. If you see a gothic looking lady staggering around in ridiculously high stilettoes chasing a brat who has the speed and agility of a mouse, yup, thats me. And yes, hand me some pimple cream while you’re around.