Pizza Face.

Growing up, I always had acne. My mom would always yell at me when I called it "acne." Acne, she said, were the craters that my father had on his face as a teenager. I just had pimples. Whatever you wanted to call them, they were the bane of my teenage existence. For years, my forehead would be home to those pesky little flesh-colored bumps. For years, I'd essentially experiment every facial wash or promising acne cleanser on the planet. Thankfully, my skin went easy on me during college. Aside from time-of-the-month breakouts, I didn't really have to worry anymore about those nuisance-y bumps. Right before my wedding, of course, I started noticing the little bumps coming back. Stress? Maybe. After my wedding, they were present enough to warrant a trip to the dermatologist where he confirmed that I was having "slight adult acne." Of course I was. Why oh why would my skin dare cooperate with me for more than four or five years?

(I should also note that my adorable little fourteen year old sister has inherited The Good Genes from both of our parents. I got mom's unruly Fran Drescher-esque hair, she got dad's silky straight hair. I got dad's also unruly skin, she got mom's flawless complexion. At fourteen, she doesn't even know the meaning of the world "pimple." Life is so unfair!)

Anyway, the dermatologist prescribed me some facial washes and overnight creams that killed my adult acne. Life was smooth sailing. I didn't even feel compelled to wear foundation to work anymore.

...And then I got pregnant.

I was reading an article on a website, one of those "what to expect during pregnancy" sites, and I read that your skin will either be clear and glowing or a teenage disaster site. As luck would have it (or as my luck would have it), my skin went with the teenager route. My forehead is covered in pimples of the teenage variety. Last night while washing my face, a few of them popped and began to bleed. The utter joy of bleeding pimples if something that I literally have not had to deal with since I was sixteen years old. And, to make it worse, I'm almost looking like Rudolph with this big red one nearly on the tip of my nose. Because there's no TMI in my world, I should also admit to the fact that these little bumps have made their big debut on my chest and a couple even on my back (which even in my teenage years has never-at-all happened before!).

I'm essentially a pimple-y mess. I find myself self-consciously comparing my own blotched complexion to my sister's teenage friends when they're over (and guess what? They ALWAYS have less acne than me!). My acne medications and dermatologist prescribed facial washes come with the bold "not for pregnant or nursing women" notices. Which leaves me with all-natural acne washes from the health food store, which are proving to be about as effective as...something that's highly ineffective. I'm not feeling too clever at the moment. Go with it.

So I guess this is part of the Pregnancy Adventure. And, before you say anything complimentary, this is me 'fessing up to airbrushing the above photograph that was taken this afternoon. At least I admitted it!


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