During Catherine's vet appointment this morning, the doctor tilted up her chin and pointed out that what I had thought was stubborn dirt was, in fact, blackheads. I sighed and paid $16.79 for a bottle of kitty acne medicine, and we went home.
Twenty minutes after we arrived, while talking to G, I noticed little bumps around her nose that look suspiciously like incipient pimples. Apparently we're going to have to add thorough face-washing to the nightly routine.
Did I mention that despite my rapidly developing wrinkles, I also still break out like clockwork once a month?
It's like a freaking Stridex commercial around here.
On a somewhat related note, I've been bemused to discover that thirty-five is the year when age really starts to show in your face. For the first half of my thirties, I could easily have passed for 10 years younger than I was, but now I look in the mirror and the face that looks back is clearly never going to see 25 or even 30 again. I still have an overall "young for my age" appearance, but those vertical lines around my mouth and the softening skin on my neck give me away. I'm not too bothered by this -- certainly not as much as I thought I was going to be -- but I find it interesting that it all happens at once, as if there's a timer in your cells that goes bing on your thirty-fifth birthday. Planned obsolescence is the order of the day for bodies as well as computers.