I am a squeezer. In gender and in nature. I have the correct naughty bits to classify me as such. As well as the monthly moodiness. I have the correct desires: lots of clothes, make-up, romance. But also, and most significantly, I love to squeeze. And I'm not talking about that loved-up cuddle on the couch action. Oh no! The Pant likes to squeezes things. With her fingers: blackheads, whiteheads, acid bumps, millea. All of them.
In fact, it is that which I miss most about being in a relationship. Sure, as only sister to The Brother (who is single), I have carte blanche on his impurities. But he was blessed with skin, as The Father puts it, like silk. Or velvet. I'm not sure. But basically, he has the smoothest blemish-free skin in the world.
And so, today, I was faced with the biggest challenge of my professional career. A teen whose gender is irrelevant walked into my classroom today. Because I see so many teens, I scarcely have time to scrutinise their faces. But this one approached me, up close, to ask if it could be excused to fill its water bottle.
And usually I'm too busy to actually look. But today I raised my head. And looked at it mug on.
And there, perched dead centre on the shnoz, was the world's biggest pimple. The thing was gargantuan. It deserved its own pillow upon which to sleep.
I spent the entire lesson sitting on my hands trying to conjure up images of naked grandpas to try and prevent myself from leaning over and giving the thing a good squeeze.
I cannot tell you the sheer delight I would have experienced at the squeezage of that number. It would have made my year.