Zit

(warning issued in the interest of the faint hearted and easily grossed out: avoid this)

This post is to commemorate the much awaited and eagerly anticipated demise of one of the most resilient blobs that has ever come to reside upon my face. Now I’m not talking your ordinary garden-variety facial blemish. I’m talking something in the league of “in the event of a nuclear holocaust- cockroaches, Cher and this pimple alone would be all that survives…”

Now as if my adolescence wasn’t tortured enough by hyperactive sebaceous glands, up to the ripe age of 22 I’m having to, now and then accommodate, for not altogether short periods of time, on an altogether not-inconsequential* portion of my face the most abhorrent little vesuviuses. Growing up was tough, especially when everyone around me looked like they had traipsed right out of a fair and lovely/clean and clear commercial (the post treatment transformed people of course.. I was the 'before' to their 'after'). And these beautiful people weren’t particularly bright either (this judgement just might need to be taken with a mug full of salt). It always boggled their minds as to how I had resigned myself to such a scarred existence. “your skin is terrible, why don’t you do something about it?”. Oh I don’t know maybe I just like being ugly, it just adds that extra delicious kick to my acute and seemingly chronic self-esteem droughts. Sheesh… they were all either incredibly insensitive or mind numbingly moronic. Either way it hurt... I found recourse in a mixture of indifference and humour. But my demeanor was just a brave front for an injured little heart (and the crowd goes.. awwww).

The universe seems hell bent on drilling the old adage, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” into my head. The latest in this long line of pimples had a life of its own… it had character and a personality. It marched to its own beat it did. So vast that it entered every room before I did… and virtually occupied a time zone distinct from the rest of me. It seemed to burgeon with every passing day and was determined to display all the colours of the rainbow during its painfully long existence... starting from an apparently harmless pink hue to a dangerously bright shade of red with variants of purples and yellows along the way (and the crowd goes eewwww!).

This morning saw the end of the eyesore's career. But much like its predecessors (of which there have been several) this too will leave in its wake a tiny little discolouration, its legacy, to remind me of the week for which I sported a big red teardrop on my cheek. This respite is transient but I'll celebrate it nonetheless.

As an aside, it amazes me that I can wax eloquent at such length, that too about a zit. And I also marvel at how blogosphere provides me with a platform to do so…


*today is the day for double negatives

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I met 'drama'prasad online today, who informed me that I am hilarious and even though I walk like a penguin, I have no business being single (cue to pai for "i can't understand it", background vocals by pooch and everyone over at the "why why why them and not us" chorus, ). That made me think, what about the people who aren't hilarious... are they undeserving of love simply because they fail to elicit a giggle?

But lets dwell a bit more on the subject of mirth. So either my sense of humour is so esoteric that only select audiences can appreciate it or being a barrel of laughs simply isn't a key criterion anymore. Recent celebrity interviews (my primary portal into the happenings in the outside world) show that "should have a great sense of humour", which once occupied top of most famous peoples' list of must have's for a prospective mate has slipped behind some other usual suspects like personality (yeah right), simplicity and down to earth-ness (good grief). Other casualties include "smart" and intelligent" and many go as far as to explicitly demand good looks and wealth though some old fashioned at heart heroines and starlets still claim alleigance to wit.

And that just makes me a little sad. I mean if women (and that too a select few) are the only one's rooting for the joker, then my target audience has been wrong all along. I wish enlightenment had come earlier (it's not as if ponniee wasn't a more than enticing endorsement of sappho's charms) would have saved a lot of time. So much energy spent on 'not caring' about what boys really think and so much time on looking 'dishevelled and thrown together' so as not to give men the satisfaction of actually putting in effort to appear aesthetically pleasing.

Had I pursued women from the beginning, there is no way I'd have failed. I wonder why men think women are complicated, they're remarkably simple and easy to please.

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I hate to relegate this to the end (note: THIS IS NOT A POST SCRIPT) given that it is a matter that requires evasive action. I would like to send a love filled shout out to my curiously pseudonymed friend 'qq'. I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself. I don't know if this helps but we're all slightly miserable really. In small little ways, in our small little lives. The trick is to change the subject as frequently as possible. And when the shit really hits the fan, rest assured there are people who will still love you, who know what it is to be a victim of bad circumstances and who would never ever hold it against you.

And most importantly, out of all the people I know, short of Amu Chechi, you are the most likely to make baldness look gorgeous. I know I sound like a clown, but I kid because I care.

You are a creature of great wisdom and beauty, a mysterious cocktail of the most brilliant and intoxicating ingredients. The universe is just plain jealous.