I can feel it on my face. Surfacing beneath my hair line, positioning its way through the pores of my forehead. I know it’s there, and when I look in the mirror, it looks heated. Like a jealous boyfriend waiting for the right moment to cum – all over my face, that is. It’s in this moment that I truly recognize how young I am.

I’m of an age that I consider to be “adult,” but am still in danger of reverting into a five year old on any given day. It’s that mid twentysomething age bracket when I still wish my mom could call in sick for me at work, but I’m not sick. I’m hungover from a night of key bumps and mixed drinks. Remind me to never drink wine again, like ever, sorry Mom.

As always, I’m stressed. I sleep in shifts, waking up, falling asleep, and changing positions like my bed is a ballet class. My head is still, but my mind is elsewhere. Somewhere on the 501 streetcar or at Rhum Corner drinking a Dark and Stormy before running to Poutini’s to inhale a takeout box of cheese and fries. It’s only until my eyes roll back that my mind is drawn to the sound of the rickety air conditioner, then back to my head, still lying on my pillow.

My face doesn’t lie. You can see the sleepless shifts in my half smudged cat eye, or the lipstick that’s probably on my front teeth right now. I blush—when I get angry that concert tickets are sold out, or frustrated when I make a typo on words I should know how to spell by now. When I’m stressed, the zits come back. All over, in places I never thought they could never appear. They hitchhike across danger zones of oil from my chin to the soft untouched areas of my cheek. Some are red, and others lay low under a thin layer of skin – napping under the warmth of artificial light from the ceiling at my desk job. Other pimples are pissed off, like me on a Monday morning. And some only visit for a day, then disappear like the black dress sock I never noticed was missing. It’s puberty all over again; each pimple makes it harder to prove to others that I’m the sophisticated bitch I’m pretending to be.

When I see these zits, it reminds me how old I am.

Now in my early twenties, I forget how young I could act if I wanted to; rash, loud, stupid if I really wanted to be. But when I’m in a client meeting, or trying to impress someone that knows more Seinfeld references than crayon colours, I know I’m really just a kid pretending to be an adult. Or maybe the other way around? Not that I’m saying I should be relieved of any responsibility, that I shouldn’t have to do whatever my boss tells me to do, or that I’m so beyond my age I forget what it means to be in my twenties. But damn, being an adult is a full time job. Washing my hair is a full time job. Groceries are like, fuck – I need to buy them.

It takes one zit, just one, to tell me just how old I really am. A girl, who still needs to cry after a bad day or feel stupid after making a mistake, I’m human, and whether I’m wearing a blazer, dirty Nikes’ or my favourite grey t-shirt with a big hole in it, I know I don’t have to pretend to be an age that I’m not. And right after I pop that zit and cover it up with NW20, my go-to skin canvas, I smile and remember that I’ve got the rest of my life to figure everything out.

So do you.

Take a moment tonight. Look at your skin and stare straight into the zits you wish you never got in the first place. Chances are, you’ll find out what your skin is trying to tell you.