I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 6, 2008
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I have a zit.
It’s a nasty zit, I’ll tell you that much right now, the kind of zit I used to sport about once a month during my teenage years, and several times a year throughout my twenties. Now that I’ve topped 30, though, the zits have been few and far between, so much so that I’ve been sort of… well, proud of this one, reminding myself when I spot its honking ugliness in the mirror that at least I’m still young enough to get zits, Hate-uhs. Hormonally, I’ve still got it goin’ on.
Unfortunately, after checking out the zit up close in the mirror this morning, my eyes traveled up to my hairline, and I realized that I have at last reached a point in which there are really too many gray hairs to even bother trying to pluck them out.
And it occurred to me that this is the essence of being in that in-between decade known as Your Thirties. I’m young enough to have zits, old enough to have gray hairs. Gee, the deep thoughts abound here, don’t they?
Anyway, my zit pride was short lived, because as I was getting ready this morning to take the kids to story time at the library, the zit suddenly lost its appeal. It was looking ugly enough in fact, to make me actually consider staying home. I tried putting a little loose powder over it, which only made it worse. Oh get over yourself, I thought sternly, you won’t see anyone at the library you know. Gah. So off to the library we went, Bruiser, Punky, my zit, and me.
And of course, I ran into all kinds of people.
“Lindsay? I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m a fan of your writing.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, smiling in profile and hoping the guy wouldn’t think I was a freak. Trust me, if he could have seen the zit I was hiding from him on the other side of my face, he’d be thanking me for my odd behavior. Besides, weren’t writers known for being weird?
Next, a guy who works with my husband walked by with a cameraman in tow.
“Well, hello there,” I said, keeping my distance behind a low shelf of children’s books.
“Hey,” he said, looking at me strangely when I didn’t approach. Warily, he held out his hand. “I’m going to shake your hand now. Because that’s what people do.” Scowling at this wisenheimer, I moved out of the shadows in order to shake his hand. He saw my zit and winced, but fortunately, said nothing.
Finally, the infamous Professor, library story time Hero, somehow managed to find me in my hiding place amid the children’s science shelves. He’s been really nice ever since I wrote a column about story time for the local paper, but you can imagine how uncomfortable it is now to go to story time and have to sit in front of two men about whom I wrote, I’ve never invited a mom to join me who hasn’t come back for more, and if some of them are harboring secret fantasies about a Library Pete/Professor sandwich, well, I can’t say I blame them.
Eek.
I talked to The Professor with a storybook in front of my face, as though I were so into what I’d been reading, I couldn’t put it away. Even though it was called “Peyote.” And it was upside down. I had had it with the repeated zit viewings. Enough was enough. Once we said our goodbyes, I hightailed it to the car, sweating and swearing under my breath.
Until this zit goes away, I am now officially housebound.
And no, there will be no pictures.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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