I used to have pretty nice skin, but then a few years ago: BOOM! ‘Sup, clogged pores?
The blackheads, whiteheads, and giant red cystic lumps took residence on my face, and, as you might imagine, I was less than happy–particularly because I thought I was in the clear when it came to my skin. Alas, I was a late bloomer, and when I bloomed, I grew a garden of skin problems.
It wasn’t just me being hypercritical and self-conscious when I say my complexion seriously deteriorated. I started getting very noticeable, large bumps, big and red enough that no concealer would hide them. As much as I knew it was a no-no, I always felt compelled to squeeze these monsters, knowing perfectly well that of course doing so left an equally-icky scab on my face (and maybe later, a scar).
I’ve tried making peace with the fact that I get pimples by ignoring them and telling myself that they aren’t as major than I think they are, but then . . . consider The Zit That Ate My Nose. It was smack in the middle of my nose, bright red, and so big it was like a bunch of zits got together in an evil plot, and formed a giant combined Power Rangers-esque force on my face.
It was Thanksgiving, so I didn’t have the opportunity to lock myself in my room with a bag over my head. My mom had already commented on my nose nemesis, and then we went to my grandma’s. When my grandma saw “Monster, the Zit” on my face, she asked what it was. I answered as nonchalantly as possible that it was a pimple, and she replied, “Well, it looks HORRIBLE!” Thanks for the self-esteem boost, Grandma.
Of course, the oversized zit took its sweet time to go away, meaning a full week later I was at an event chatting with my friend and realized she wasn’t looking me in the eye. “Are you looking at my zit?!” I demanded. She answered in the affirmative.
And then the week after THAT, I was going to a giant hip hop show with a friend – who, of course, looked super hot – and no matter how cute my outfit was, how eye-catching my makeup was, and how blingy my earrings were, there was the zit remnant, bumming me out.
But I suppose that pimple was a special one (I really, really hope so). Yes, I get pimples, but we all get clogged pores, even celebrities (remember AnnaLynne McCord’s Twitter pic? Have you ever Googled celebrities and acne?). I’ll admit to being wickedly gleeful when I watch Top Model and see the contestants’ zits – their concealer makes them less noticeable, but you can still see the bumpiness. And as much as I’m never stoked to look in the mirror and see pimples gracing my own face, I’ve come to accept it: I never bother with makeup, I try not to harp on it, I stick in a hairclip with a big fake flower (distraction!), and leave the house. I may hate the fact that I get pimples, but really, it’s just a part of being human.
Now that you know I get pimples, do you get pimples, too? Do you find it awesome or irritating when gorgeous celebs insist, “I get pimples just like you”? Tell me everything in the comments!