Trends may come and go, but some things are truly classic. Every gal worth her salt knows the ultimate in upcoming-event-wear should always be grounded in timeless basics such as a well-coiffed 'do, neatly groomed nails, and one of those... oh, heck, what are those called...? You know, those big, round, shiny things? No, no - not bling...
Ah, yes: pimples.
Not part of a complete wardrobe, you say? Well, shoosh! You're going to hurt my forehead's feelings! It's been dishing up pimples for every gathering and assorted festive event for as long as your Great Aunt Millicent has been bringing her (in)famous jello molds.
Yep, I've got a family gathering coming up in T minus not-quite-long-enough-for-squeeze-marks-to-heal, so natch I sprung me a doozy just this morning.
But you know what? Joke's on you, pimple. I'm in my thirties. I don't have to care what I look like. No one's looking anymore anyways. So what the hell, why fuss over it?
Actually... wait a second here... I'm in my thirties. If my calculations are correct, this shiny beacon of adolesence should average out against my nascent crow's-feet to actually make me look younger!
Eureka! Sell your shares in Olay! This changes everything!
Oh, no! Everything looks good on paper, yet a quick glance in the mirror suggests I look like a person of my own age, just... pimplier. Some unknown variable must be affecting my equations!
Let me just - just give me a second here to work this through... take the natural logarithm of sebum... calculate slope of the frown line... divide by the radius of the subcutaneous inflammation... Ah. I've discovered the fatal flaw. Alas. Undone by the little-known coefficient @!#.
Or, to those of you less well-voiced in mathematical theory, the Occasional Chin Hair of Impending Middle Age.