Giving in to breaking out.

A lot of stuff happens as we age.

I realize that's no breaking news flash, and most of it I can grudgingly accept, if I cling to a philosophical approach using geographical analogies.

Hair which once sprouted from the top of my head has apparently retired and relocated to warmer, more southerly regions. I've accepted this, and I'm not anticipating a return home, even to visit relatives for the holidays.

My lower back has experienced a series of civil wars, rendering the area virtually lawless, its day-to-day stability hinging on the teetering tribal alliances of corrupt warlords. Humanitarian deliveries of Vicodin, physical therapy and muscle relaxants have secured a tense détente, yet after decades of turmoil, scar tissue litters the horizon.

The luring brothel that is my gastrointestinal tract beckons the unwitting tourist. Bacon cheeseburgers, pepperoni pizzas and deep fried butter slabs line the seedy bars and dark alleyways. Once the transaction is consummated and morning's light illuminates the filthy truth, not even a Pepcid/TUMS power cocktail can stave off the inevitable.

Okay, enough with the talk of Arizona, Sudan and Bangkok. Here's an annoyance I can't abide:

Acne. I still get it.

What the hell? I still wake up, stumble into the bathroom, gaze into the mirror and spot Mount St. Helens, lava dome and all, growing on the side of my nose.

At least when I was a kid, I had a full head of hair, a strong back and a thin body to distract myself from the festering pustules littering my teenscape. Plus, the acne followed certain covenants—face and back only, with occasional rogue tenancy within a nostril or under an eyebrow. I actually had to sit out a band practice once due to a lip zit which rendered trumpet playing highly painful and futile.

I was pretty embarrassed. The band director looked puzzled when I told him, yet didn't question my injury, which was kind of nice of him.

Now, I don't get wicked clusters of them like I used to, but I'll find one on my forearm or between a couple of fingers...even inside my ear. Seriously? I had no idea the insides of our ears had pores. Inside-the-ear skin always seemed more like a tarp over some cardboard, where substances just glance off.

I'm forty-nine years old, and people my age with pimples are as out of place as a dog in a halter top. Wait, I saw one of those at the beach yesterday. You know what I mean.

The human body needs some tighter rules regarding phasing out one class of blemish prior to introducing a new unsightly attribute. On second thought, maybe I'm just being unreasonable; maybe I should embrace these tiny imperfections, possibly even name them.

I think I'll call this one on the tip of my nose "Rush."