Tomorrow, my boyfriend and I will be winging our way towards fabulous Las Vegas, in a long-needed and much-appreciated vacation. We’re planning on seeing shows, losing money, taking pictures, and generally making like big-time tourists.
Tonight, however, my nose has taken it upon itself to hatch a zit that resembles nothing so much as the eggs from the Aliens movies. Both in appearance and in scale; it is a zit of tremendous proportions, a zit which makes the zits of passers-by stand up and take notice. A zit, if you will, among zits.
Now, in my time, I have had a few zits. Pimples haven’t plagued me, per se, but they have dominated my complexion for periods of time, most notably in my adolesence. But now that I’m barreling comfortably towards middle age, they’re about as welcome as a pop quiz.
It hasn’t even come to a head yet, and even in its subcutaneous form, my nose has become noticeable enough to inspire my boyfriend to hum a few bars of Rudolph whenever I’m around. I caught sight of him looking like he was concentrating hard just now, really straining at something, and asked him what was wrong. “Mine just won’t light up like that!” He said. Be assured, he’s been effectively chased around the house with a couch cushion.
Tomorrow I head to Vegas, home of suave sophistication, sporting a honker that would make Jimmy Durante turn and stare.
My nose can bite me.
