I must cancel plans to shoot my author photo anytime in the next two weeks. Apparently, my skin has decided it does not accept my recent fortieth birthday. It has decided to behave like a sixteen-year-old. Wasn't there supposed to be some perfect moment between the onset of wrinkles and the presence of hideous, suppurating zits? And yet, now I have an oozing pustule smack dab in the middle of one of my many wrinkles.
Can I really be blogging about this? Johnny Carson is dead, much of the country is hiding under twenty-five feet of snow, Abbas is talking ceasefire, and Ayelet is blogging about her pimples.