Pop!

It’s ridiculous, really.

I’m a grown man. My rent is paid, my kitchen’s clean, and my socks are organized. I eat healthy, work out semi-regularly, and limit myself to smoking just a few joints a week. So why on earth do I find myself, 30-years-old with gray hairs to prove it, still waking up this morning with a pimple on my nose?

It’s not even a small pimple. It’s a grand, throbbing, monument of a pimple, a deep rose blush pulling up the sides of my nose to a custard cream peak, a tidal wave of a pimple cresting directly between my eyes. I can’t even forget about it. It looms in my periphery taunting me, ghastly.

Of course I didn’t have any acne medication, so I just massaged some toothpaste into it and set out to endure my day as if it were any other. Thinking back now, I should have just popped the sucker, but I rationalized that, being an adult, it wouldn’t attract the level of attention it would have in high school. I was wrong.

On the subway to work, I literally buried my nose in my book. I could still feel people looking at me, stealing glances from their own reading material, even snapping clandestine pictures with their cell phones. One fat little goblin-boy practically being held upright by his frazzled-looking mother stared up at me extending one of his pudgy digits at my nose and said, “Woooooow!”

At the office it only got worse. The day passed excruciatingly slowly. I skipped my coffee so I would have to use the bathroom less. The high walls of my cubicle were for once a welcome solace. I dug into my work, hoping the toothpaste would do its job.

Usually no one visits my desk. Today it was like a speed dating session.

Sharon, the Puerto Rican secretary, came by to see if I wanted to buy a raffle ticket for the bake sale next week. Her eyes bulged slightly as she swallowed a gasp. She barely let me shake my head “no” before she scurried away. She would no doubt be whispering about it to Chantalle within the hour.

When Eldwin, head of HR, stopped by, he made it through his whole spiel about some new employee incentive plan before stopping and letting his eyes focus on the troll’s knuckle projecting from my nose. He took a breath and hesitated for a long second before swallowing his thought and moving on to the next cube. I checked my email.

When I finally went to the bathroom, I examined my scourge in the mirror. The rest of my face was clear. I was clean-shaven and my hair actually looked pretty good for once. If it weren’t for the puss-filled balloon wobbling about the middle of my face, I would definitely drop by Wendy’s desk. I had been putting off asking her out since she first started working here two weeks ago. Time was running out. There is a distinct window of opportunity with these matters, and mine with her was closing fast.

Just yesterday we had had a moment by the vending machines. She was looking over the various treats and snacks when I stumbled around the corner. Her short-cropped bob shimmered like a halo as I shuffled up to her, my heart stomping a flamenco solo in my chest.

“What should I get?” She asked, still regarding the junk food menagerie. My capacity for speech had somehow disintegrated. She glanced over at me and smiled.

“I don’t know,” I croaked. I was unconsciously jingling the coins in my pocket. I stopped.

“I can’t decide between sweet or salty.” She bit her lip and shifted her weight allowing me to further take in the majesty of her form. She’s a little young for me, but my crush was solid. I suggested some Thai chips that met in the middle, but she didn’t have enough change. That’s when it happened.

When she reached for the nickel I produced from my pocket her hand lingered touching mine. Our eyes met in a moment of undeniable connection. When she strutted off with her chips I knew I had a chance.

Prodding at my pimple with the dual-index finger method, I test its elasticity. Is it ready? If I try to pop it too soon, then it may just become agitated and entrench itself for the rest of the week like a ravaged war zone in the middle of my face. But if I pop it at the right time, it will deflate quietly and I could be normal-looking by the time I leave the office. I move closer to the mirror so that it glares at me blindly like a giant Cyclops cataract.

The problem with pimples is that they want to be popped; that’s what they’re for. We anticipate the release that follows their eruption, the relaxation that accompanies the skin’s return to homeostasis. They sing to us from beneath our skin, relentlessly tugging at our consciousness.

I gently apply pressure around its base and watch the head grow whiter. If I pop it, how long will I have to wait in this bathroom before I can make it back to my desk without Rudolph’s nose? I work my fingers around the edges watching it throb, relishing the enticing pinch. If I leave it alone though, it could be gone by tomorrow morning, reduced to a minor blemish.

But where’s the fun in that?