Once upon a time a LONG time ago I looked forward to getting old.
I looked forward to getting old not because I could yell at people in public and hit them with things.
I looked forward to getting old not because I could pretend not to hear things I didn’t want to hear.
I looked forward to getting old not because I could wear leopard print and fire engine red lips with complete and utter lack of irony.
I looked forward to getting old because no longer would I suffer the indignity of (miscellaneously):
In my youth I took every known cure for acne known to teen-woman. Oxy this and that. The contraceptive pill (and that was A Big Mistake). The months and months of Oxytetracycline which finally knocked the whiteheads on the head.
Nowadays you can blame me and my spots for the prevalence of superbugs.
For a while in my twenties I was pimple free. Then in my late thirties I had children. The bitter irony of childbirth that was not only was I twenty years too old to be giving birth in the first place (a fact I feel keenly every day) but my plukes reappeared. Quite ferociously in fact.
Now and again I will go out and spend a lot of money on zit cream and.or wodges of skin care regimen products. These usually work for a couple of months and then not so much thereafter.
Today when I woke up I had face spots, shoulder spots, back acne and (horror) bum spots.
Enough is enough – I thought to myself.
Today I went back to basics. A homemade salt shower scrub with lavender and tea tree oils followed by a trip to the pharmacy to buy all these things.
Let’s hope they work because let’s face it – being a pensioner with pustules would be weird, right?