Today's Proof That Life Isn't Fair

Don’t you just want to smack someone when you hear, “Life’s not fair?” We hate to hear it, not only because we know it’s true, but because the person saying it is clearly expressing a complete lack of sympathy for our own latest personal injustice. Anyone who doesn’t believe that life isn’t fair is either a) rich, b) delusional, or c) utterly full of shit.

Today’s proof of life’s dearth of fairness was found in my bathroom mirror. I understand that I am 43. I accept some of the common signs of aging, such as wrinkles, sagging body parts, and gray hair. Thanks to the miracles of modern science (rich moisturizers, Victoria’s Secret Uplift jeans, and hair color in every shade of auburn imaginable) I can banish them, at least temporarily, from my life.

Unfortunately, my limited financial resources deny me access to some of the loftier and more ambitious methods of stalling the hands of time. These include laser hair removal, cosmetic surgery, and employing a flock of fawning minions to follow me around and extol the virtues of my mind-boggling youthful beauty.

Still, some things are just not right. This isn’t about “fair,” it’s about “wrong.” Can anyone explain to me why the Universe should permit any woman to have both an enormous zit and numerous dark chin whiskers at the same time?????

The chin whiskers are nothing new. It started long ago, with just a few stray ones here and there, which were easily tweezeable. As time passed (and whiskers increased), a razor became required, because really, how long can you stand there ripping unwanted snaggly hairs off of your face on a daily basis? Plus, OUCH. Waxing is not an option, because in order for the waxy stuff to stick to and remove (“rip out”) the offending whiskers, you have to let them grow out slightly, possibly for several days, and that? Is so not going to happen! I mean, by now, left un-mown, my chin is capable of producing a goatee that would put many macho men to shame.

Anyway, I have if not actually accepted the whiskers, at least come to terms with the fact that they are here to stay. As long as I have a ready supply of fresh razors, I’ll cope.

The zit, however, is an unwelcome newcomer.

Even when I was a teenager, I seldom had blemishes of any kind. So why, at 43, must I deal with this gross cosmic injustice? This thing is huge. I was forced to spend a distressing amount of time this morning applying layer after layer of flesh-colored spackle in an (unsuccessful) attempt to disguise it. And it doesn’t help that I am a “picker.” Give me a scab, peeling sunburn, hangnail, blister, or blemish, and I will pick at it until it is exponentially worse than it otherwise would have been. Can’t help it. The only reason the stitches in my head have survived this long is because I can’t see them. Oh, and because inadvertently causing an abscess that close to my brain is something I suspect would be unwise (and unpleasant).

So naturally, I have attempted to pop the damned thing (didn’t work), succeeding only in irritating and bruising the surrounding skin. Which required another layer of spackle. Even now, I’m struggling to resist the impulse to reach up there and give it one more try.

In the scheme of things (war, famine, cancer, Republicans), I know that whiskers and zits, even when occurring simultaneously, aren’t truly earth-shattering. Still, it’s all the proof I needed this morning that Life Isn’t Fair.

On the upside, I am having a better hair day. So maybe there’s hope.