The Elephant in the Room

I just had 15 women in my living room for a church meeting. Some I knew well, some I was meeting for the first time. One was our assistant pastor. There was a 16th presence in the room, of which no one spoke--the enormous oozing pustule on the side of my face.

Hello? I am almost 40 and would like to think I’ve outgrown zits. No such luck. I wasn’t sure what the church-lady etiquette was concerning acknowledging a zit. In my house growing up, any blemish, real or perceived, would be commented upon. My dear, dear older brother would breeze into the kitchen: “Hey, Schween-bag --can I carry your zit?” Poor grammar, but he got the point across.

Tonight I felt inclined to mention my blemish, but I held off. Sometimes I tend to get a teensy-weensy bit over familiar, you know? I did use the words hell and crap in front of the minister, but they seemed perfectly appropriate at the time.

When the meeting broke up, I was left with plates of brownies, chocolate cannolli, chocolate chip cookies and other assorted desserts to pack away for consumption when my kids are at school tomorrow. I know most people no longer believe that chocolate causes zits, but I did wonder as I bagged up my stash, if some of the ladies thought that’s how my monster zit got there in the first place.

I have not included a photo with this post. You’re welcome.




P.S. Oh my. I just looked up "Shweenbag" and was alarmed to discover what my brother has been calling me all these years. I prefer this alternate definition: "Schweenbag (SHWEEN-BAG) n. - An unpleasant, uncool, and strange person. One who is out of place in a mildly disgusting way." Whew.