Jen's Column / Zits Part II

I’ve discovered the common denominator. The one thing that brings us all together. No, it’s not love. It’s not the quest for world peace. It’s not even a really good bottle of wine.

It’s zits.

You wouldn’t believe how many phone calls, e-mails and impromptu conversations I’ve received since last week’s column on my gargantuan chin zits — which are, I’m proud to report, nearly gone, thank you very much.

As early as last Wednesday evening — while tackling hills during a borderline sadistic Running Room clinic — my fellow runner Joy told me about the “zit zapper.” The zapper is a $200 cell-phone sized tool that shoots heat into your zit, supposedly speeding your pimples away. Joy learned of the zit zapper through her daughter, who’s planning a wedding and saving money in the budget for any last-minute eruptions.

Isn’t technology marvelous?

It was the low-tech remedies that really intrigued me, though. A reader named Jennifer told me to “try Windex. It works in the movies!” Another Jennifer (there are a lot of us out here, people) recommended Colgate toothpaste. “Seriously,” she wrote. “Cover your pimples in Colgate and they’ll be better almost overnight.”

Michelle wrote the key is to keep a hot washcloth on your zits as often as possible. Maggie, on the other hand, recommended ice — because, she explained, “hot towels just give me blotches, so we might as well try cold, right?”

Stacie wrote that rubbing mashed garlic on a pimple works every time — while Sarah recommended a cinnamon/lemon juice mixture. And hey — if nothing else, you’ll have a unique perfume.

Julie Jones (yes — the Julie Jones of KWWK 96.5 fame) called to remind me to wipe my face after running to make sure my pores weren’t clogged with sweat. (Julie, by the way, is a hotbed of information. I first met her when she called to tell me how to use bleach in my washing machine after I admitted in a column that I didn’t know.)

Incidentally, it was also Julie who told me that getting the occasional zit doesn’t improve with age. In fact, she noted, it gets worse. “Pretty soon you’ll get pimples on your back end and hair on your chin,” she said without the least sign of remorse.

She wasn’t the only one who shared this bleak news — delivered with a cruel dose of laughter. No, the true camaraderie last week came in the form of “It doesn’t get any better — but that’s OK! We’re all in this together!”

A reader named Wendy wrote, “I’m 42 and still having to deal with [zits] at times…. Doesn’t my body know it’s time to grow up?”

Chris wrote, “I'm 40 and have a nasty one on my left cheek that keeps coming back. It's like having a second nose the thing is so big.”

Jessica told me to be thankful that I have only two pimples instead of four. And Katherine told me I should be grateful that I don’t have shingles all over my head. Indeed.

By far the best message, however, was from a reader named Angie who not only sympathized — but attached a picture of her own zit, which, like mine, was displayed prominently on her chin. That’s sisterhood, people. When you don’t only commiserate, but send photographic evidence as well.

I was so impressed that I suggested we take our zits out for a playdate. We’re getting them together next week. Maybe I’ll pack a little garlic for the trip.

Jen's Column / Zits!

It’s been a good week. I ran my first five-miler. My kindergartner ditched his training wheels. My second-grader rose to the challenge of being the big brother —helping our little guy learn the ropes of bus and school.

But all of this has been overshadowed by zits. That’s right — zits. Plural. And not just any zits. No, I’ve managed to land matching side-by-side bright red pimples just below the right side of my mouth. They are obnoxious, unavoidable — practically pulsating.

What is up with this? Does my face not know I am 35 years old? Does it not remember that I’ve already done my time? Did I not already suffer enough during junior high?

And, really, on my chin? Why couldn’t I get them on my forehead where some creative hair styling could make them disappear? Or along my jawline, where strategic finger placement could serve as a shield? But no. They’re right out there for everyone to see — the only possible disguise being a facemask, which, I decided, would look even freakier than what I’ve already got going on.

I’m fixated. I sit cross-legged on the bathroom counter, poking and staring at them in the mirror several times a day.

No one looks in my eyes anymore. They may be thanking me for my purchase or wishing me a good morning, but they’re staring at my chin and thinking, “Holy crimony. Those are some big-*** pimples.”

I wish they’d just say it. It would be less awkward.

I’ve considered broaching the subject myself. “I have gargantuan zits!” I want to say to the checker at the grocery store, the teller at the bank, the fellow volunteers at my children’s school. “It’s OK to talk about the zits!”

Even my family is obsessed. “Just let me at them,” says my husband, passing me on the stairs last night. “C’mon. It’ll be over in a second.”

“You,” I say with a glare, “are not touching my face.”

Last night when I leaned in for a bedtime kiss, my five-year-old’s hands intercepted my chin. “Oooh…. Bumpy!” he said. My eight-year-old was more direct. Studying me over his Golden Grahams this morning he said, “Will those ever go away?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” I answered.

I’ve tried to make this easier on everyone and cover them — but I can’t. Concealer just runs down the sides of their formidable slopes, and powder bunches around the bottom leaving a large red peak shining out the top. They end up looking like a diorama of twin volcanoes.

I called my sister this morning and left a message. “Angela. What can I do about two giant zits? Call me.”

She returned my call with her own message. “How would I remember? I’m 29.”

I’m just going to have to wait this thing out. And seeing as it’s impossible to hide in my room, I’ve decided to embrace my blemishes. Maybe I’ll even make T-shirts — “Pimply and Proud!” — and become the official poster child (poster adult?) for post-adolescent acne. Get it out in the open.

If you see me, don’t be afraid. Talk about my zits. Offer your advice. Tell me they’re bound to go away someday. It’ll make us both feel better.

Jen's Column / Regrets

I was supposed to be working last night. But instead, I found myself surfing the Internet and reading an interview with actor Rob Lowe. I’m not a particularly big Rob Lowe fan — but I am excellent at stalling. And Mr. Lowe is as good a diversion as any.

In the interview, Lowe was quoted as saying, “I regret nothing. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my mistakes.”

I’ve read this schtick before. I’m pretty sure Britney Spears said she had no regrets in the same interview that she said then-husband Kevin Federline was “awesome.”

And I just have to say, “Really? No regrets? Zero? Zip? Nada?”

I find this hard to believe. I mean, if it’s true, then, well, good for them. It must feel great to be happy with every decision you’ve ever made in your entire life.

I am not one of these people.

Today alone, I regretted not setting the timer for the cookies I threw in the oven (and forgot), not buying another jug of milk before dinner, and not starting this column earlier.

I regret every day I haven’t flossed my teeth each time I sit down in Dr. Calcagno’s dentist chair. I regret not going on a single run the week before my last Running Room 10k Clinic. I regret losing Jen-from-Silver-Lake-Park’s phone number, because she seemed really nice and it would’ve been fun to get together.

I regret every time I “ran out of time” and didn’t see my grandparents when visiting my hometown. I regret not asking my grandfather to teach me more Norwegian before he died, and I regret not asking my grandmother to show me how to make lefse before she died.

I regret every time I’ve raised my voice at my kids. I regret every time I’ve hollered, “One more minute!” — and then didn’t come up from my home office for half an hour. I regret every bedtime there wasn’t time to read a book.

I regret wearing my Country Kitchen waitress smock and gravy-smeared blue knit pants when asking out that boy at the gas station when I was 18. (Really. What was I thinking?)

Of course, there are decisions I don’t regret, too.

I don’t regret studying literature and writing in college, even though everyone said, “Seriously? What will you do with an English degree?”

I don’t regret passing up the all-expense-paid business trip to Australia the Halloween my son dressed as Buzz Lightyear and I dressed as Woody — because I was pretty sure he’d never request matching costumes again.

I never regret ditching my to-do list for a girls’ night out — even if it means I’m up until 3 a.m. finishing an article on septoplasty.

Most importantly, I don’t regret the Big Ones: Getting married. Having children. Moving to Rochester. Quitting my “real job” to become a freelance writer.

I expect I’ll always have some regrets — many, if the past is any indicator. And you know what? Thank goodness. It’s because I regret my mistakes that I’m trying not to repeat them. It’s because I regret my mistakes that I’m learning something from them. I’m flossing more. I’m running between 10k practices. I’m reading to my kids every night.

In fact, I’d have to say I have a sense of peace about the mistakes I’ve made. Well, with the exception of the Country Kitchen smock/knit pants/“do-you-want-to-go-out-sometime?” combo. That one, my friends, will always be a cringe-worthy memory.

We have two school-agers!

Hi friends / family / nice woman named Amy would found our blog somehow:

Here's a picture of Christian and Bergen on Bergen's first day of kindergarten. Not the typical "first day of school" shot, I realize -- but it does represent my kiddos accurately. They like to ham it up!

School's going well. Both boys have GREAT teachers and I'm spending a lot of time at the school volunteering, so I'm checking up on them a lot! (Sneaky mom...)

xoxo, jen

Jen's Column / Fuel! (9/5)

I was on my way home from “up north” last week when I realized my fuel gauge was on E. By the time I made it to the next town, I practically rolled into the gas station on fumes. This is typical. I always think my gas tank can handle one more errand, get to one more town.

You’d think I’d learn.

Two years ago, I was on that same stretch of road on the way to my grandparents’ cabin. In a move that I believed to be genius, I decided to make the 6-1/2-hour drive at night. I figured I’d cheat time by driving in the dark and get an extra morning out of the deal.

So I bid my husband and kids goodbye, threw in an audiobook and hit the road. I was making good time, and had just an hour to go when my fuel light blinked on at midnight.

“Ah,” I thought, dismissively. “I’ll just stop in the next town.”

It turns out there are long strings of towns in northern Minnesota — with names like Ogema and Bejou — where pay-at-the-pump doesn’t exist and gas stations close at 8 p.m.

So there I was at 12:30 a.m. — the glowing orange pointer of my fuel gauge resting decidedly below E. By the time I hit Waubun — the fourth town in a row without an all-night gas station — it was time to make a crucial decision: Was it better to spend the night in a service station parking lot or stalled on the side of the road two miles outside the next town? I went with the parking lot.

But here’s the thing. In the middle of the night, even quaint little towns with populations of 388 look eerie and dangerous. I decided I needed to get low, keep hidden and find a weapon in case someone decided to break into my van and/or kidnap me. (I was fairly convinced that at least one of these scenarios was inevitable.)

So I locked the doors, crawled into the rear seat and covered myself with my emergency blanket. Then I turned on my cell phone, pulled out the antenna (sharp and weapon-ish), entered my husband’s phone number, and poised my index finger above the “send” button.

Two hours later, with my trigger finger still at the ready, I heard tires slow and then stop on the gravel outside my van.

Terrified, I lifted my head to peer outside. It was a police car. Did I breathe a sigh of relief? Did I wave a white flag out the rear window? Did I run to the cruiser in gratitude?

No. I ducked and prayed he didn’t see me.

For some reason, I was afraid it was illegal to stay overnight in a parking lot. (OK, so I don’t do my best thinking at 3 a.m.) And, frankly, I felt like an idiot. What was I supposed to say? “Hi. I’m just waiting for the station to open. But, hey! I’ve got this here cell phone I can use as a weapon, so don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

No, it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have.

The officer was gone when I woke at 5:30 a.m. to the sound of keys in the gas station door. I was relieved to realize I hadn’t been kidnapped — though I did succumb to an untamable case of bedhead. When the overhead lights flickered on, I was the first in line to gas up. And I vowed to keep my tank above the half-way mark for the rest of my life.
But, apparently, I’m still working on that.