Not there yet.

I didn't set out to make it so, but all this bellyaching about my age has become a part of my shtick.

Listen. Truth be told, I'm not that old. Despite the gray hair in my eyebrows, I still can't get a discount on my meals or movie admission. I don't own a single pair of SAS shoes, and I can't get anybody interested in the idea of me going home and drawing a check from social security instead of working my ass into the ground everyday.

But really. I would have thought that by now I would be finished with the trials and tribulations of the inglorious pimple. Can somebody, anybody, tell me--how grown up do you have to be? I'm beginning to wonder if anyone ever outlives the occasional outbreak. Will I eventually reach the point when my shopping list includes denture adhesive, adult diapers, and benzoyl peroxide?

It's embarrassing. When I was 13, it didn't bother me a bit to stand in line to buy tampons--not even if the checkout guy was smokin' hot. But try standing in the aisle alongside a couple teenagers, trying to read the back of the Oxy5 tube under florescent lighting through your bifocals. It takes me forever to decide what product to buy. I typically go through three sets of teenagers on an average buy.

The rest of the world must really think that people my age don't get pimples anymore. Because of this, sometimes I just pretend that something else entirely is going on. "This giant thing on the side of my nose? It's a spider bite! Yeah, I know--the doctor says I may need some corrective surgery. She says those tiny brown ones can be the most dangerous. I'm just glad my nose didn't fall off!"

All this work, just because I've got big pores. You can see how it all just makes me feel older than ever. The face wash, the astringent, the medicated makeup. The lies.

God willing, some day I really will be old. I'll stay home all day. I'll sweep my porch every morning. I'll plant plastic flowers in the yard, and I'll cut the toes out of my tennis shoes. I'll crochet granny square purses and hats for my grandchildren, who will not wear them.

When I really am an old lady, I probably won't wear purple, and unless someone pokes me in my ribs with a gun, I won't be wearing a red hat. But when I get an enormous pimple on my face, I will be wearing a Band-Aid, and don't you dare say a thing about it.