No really

I never thought that I'd spend time or energy trying to convince someone that I had a pimple.

Guess I was wrong.

I am thirty (something) and still have the complexion of a teenager. My husband, on the other hand, slathers enough lotion on himself to skate on. I guess opposites really do attract.

I digress.

I woke up the other day with a small mountain growing in the space just beyond the outer edge of my eye. Fortunately, I found that if I straightened my hair, my bangs covered it. I went through the whole day with it covered (and for the record, oil from hair, I'm certain, is exceedingly good for a pimple).

Then I went to my grandma's.

We went out to Skyline (oh, baby!), and the boys got a great kick out of pointing it out. I was swatting their little pointing hands away like flies. My grandma kept asking what it was.

I told her it was a pimple.

She asked if I got it playing football.

I told her it was a pimple.

She asked if I got it from a child.

I told her it really was a pimple.

Four hours later, we were playing cards and she said, "Honsy, really, did you get that in the football game because it is looking very angry."

Seriously, Grandma, it's a pimple.

No.

Yes.

Really? That's a pimple?

Uh, huh.

I don't believe you.

Sometimes, love really is blind.