As a child, I looked forward to my teen years because it meant i’d (hopefully) have boobs, be able to wear makeup, shave my hairy ass legs, and if I ever grew out of my ugly duckling phase, be able to date boys. No more passing secret notes with “check yes or no”, OH HELL NAW, it was gonna be the real thing! I would get to become a WOMAN! And since I was female, none of that embarrassing voice cracking bullshit boys have to go through. There was always the threat of starting my period in the middle of class (and I witnessed it happen a few times), but I guess when you have the promise of all kinds of other fabulous things, and you’ve never experienced the feeling of your uterus in a vice grip strung up with barbed wire, it doesn’t seem nearly as bad.
And then there’s the downside. Skin.
With puberty comes eruptions of volcanic proportions on a lot of teenage faces.
I won’t sit here and tell you I was chased down the hallways with people screaming “PIZZA FACE!” after me. My highschool skin situation was not that serious- but when I got a zit… I got it BAD. The kind your mother tells you not to squeeze but you just CAN’T FUCKING RESIST because the thing is so gigantic that you swear you will never leave the house with it there, and you end up inches away from the bathroom mirror with a tapeworm coming out of your face.
You may have just gagged, but I know you can relate.
Just like mama always told me not to pop my zits, mama always told me that once I got out of those nasty teen years- my skin would clear up and no longer would I have to worry about break outs and wanting to hide under a rock until I stopped looking like I belonged in a leper colony. And I believed her, because I looked at her face and can’t recall ever seeing a single blemish… but perhaps that has more to do with the fact that I was a typical self obsessed “ME ME ME” teenager, or her years of makeup knowledge beyond my own.
At that point I began looking forward to my twenties, just as I had looked forward to my teens. Hooray! Freedom! Alcohol! No curfew! No zits! Boobs… maybe?
And then sauntered in reality, all high and fucking mighty, nose stuck up in the air, and says “Oh no! No no no, that was just the BEGINNING!”
Puberty might be a bitch, but attempting to age gracefully is even bigger of one.
Mommy, why did you lie to me???
|fuck you, good looking|
Young men might go through voice-cracking polter-wood, but at least they get better looking with age. Just look at George Clooney or Brad Pitt- do those men EVER have a bad day? Do the excess years deter from their level of attraction from the ladies? I think not.
Meanwhile, I break out more now than I EVER did in my school-aged years. Sure, like my mother did years ago, I now too have years of makeup tricks under my belt, but that doesn’t make them any less annoying- and when you get a pimple the size of Mount Vesuvius- not all the tricks in the world make you confident enough to get within a few FEET of other human beings. I’m sure it doesn’t help when you have a two year old pointing at your face and yelling “BOOBOO!” though.
Perhaps that’s the answer to it all- stress. As a teenager you worry about dates and homework and whatever the hell else it is that snotty teens worry about (what? it’s been a while.)- hence the leper colony. As an adult you realize that life.. well.. it’s fucking hard. There are bills and jobs and being on top and responsibility- hence Mount Vesuvius with Zeus on top casting down lightning bolts… and then, last but most definitely not least, there is parenthood and the weight of creeping closer to “old age.”
That is when your skin just decides it’s had e-fucking-nough and goes balls to the wall with pure hatred. Fine lines, wrinkles, enlarged pores, the Himalayas, redness, age spots… perhaps a dash of unwanted facial hair.
There is really only one way to combat this (well, ok, two ways if you consider plastic surgery). Blame.
I said it. Let’s blame someone. And who better to blame for wrinkles and stress pimples and the old maid ‘stache than the main aggravation: kids?
If we can’t blame them for things, what are they good for? Y’know, other than that pesky love crap.
Double the reason to run away and join the traveling circus; not only will it get you a break from all the stresses of real life, BUT you’ll already have the face for the prime spot in the freak show!
How to Convince Your Fam to Watch ANYTHING you want on Netflix! goo.gl/fb/H6iZrR
We're just... uh.... wrestling.... 😂😂😂 pic.twitter.com/dpAIyM88c8
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I-Spy on road trips DOES. NOT. WORK. Here's my "traveling with kids in cars" survival guide holdinholden.com/2017/08/road…
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@selfmademummy I'd explode if I tried
"Motherhood-- the days are long but the years are short" Wrong. The days are long but the SLEEP is short.
If you enjoy working hard to prep a delicious meal only to be told "I'm definitely going to hate that" before it's served, you'll love kids.
it's what I like to call "Resting Mom Face" pic.twitter.com/DmFPcSIZjR