Last night as Bill and I were washing up for bed, I saw Bill lean towards the mirror and start picking at a blemish (a pimple, really, but I hate that word "pimple" it's just too ... pimpley) that has taken up residence at the start of his eyebrow.
I snark, "How's that working for you?" Referring to the fact that he was digging at his face.
He takes a step back from the mirror and admires that now flaming, red spot on his face. "It's great. This is exactly what I was hoping for."
I raise my eyebrows and start to giggle.
"Yeah, I was hoping this is what it would look like today. It looks good, don't you think? It's all red and oozing bit. Yeah. This is just what I wanted for myself."
Now, I'm belly laughing and holding onto the sink.
"It was close to healing over the weekend, but I really wanted to have it all red and raw looking for the week. What do you think? How'd I do?" he asks as he thrusts his face toward mine.
I'm hysterical now.
I can hear Sean shuffling around in his room on the other side of the wall and wonder what he thinks of us yucking it up in the bathroom at 10:00 at night. But I can't stop laughing.
I'm still chuckling to myself after Bill hopped on the train to Snoozeville.
Nothing says funny like a 47-year-old pimple face.
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