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You Can't Find This on Tinder

You Can’t Find This on Tinder

It was well past midnight when it happened.

There was an uncomfortable pressure in my upper back. I’d been working late nights and longer hours lately and figured it was a terrible knot below my shoulder blades.

Upon further investigating, twisting and contorting my body to see the spot in the mirror, there it was. A bulging zit rearing its ugly head. Literally, the head of this thing had facial features and expressions and if its little mouth had been capable of projecting, I’d have surely heard it say, “Fuck you.”

As much as I like to think I’m exceptionally bendy, my arms weren’t even coming close to the zip code this thing was colonizing on my back. I needed help and there was only one logical solution: I needed to wake up my sleeping husband.

With a gentle wiggle and the most saccharine voice I could muster in my late-night grogginess, I managed to wake him from his cozy slumber. If my memory serves me, when his eyes opened one after another in a sleep-drunk stupor, I said, “Honey, can you help me pop a gnarly zit on my back?” Which I’m sure probably sounded more like I was possessed by demons and asking him to sacrifice his penis so that my army of baby demons could come to earth to work at the post office.

As he staggered, bleary-eyed into the bathroom to help, we collected all of the necessary supplies: a wad of toilet paper and a flush of our dignity down the toilet. This was about to happen.

There I stood, my shirt over my head, Cornholio style, raw and naked (quite literally from the waist up) and ready for relief.

He started pressing and prodding but nothing was happening. It was time we went back to the drawing board on how we were going to conquer this thing.

We needed a plan. We needed better stability. We needed teamwork.

Assuming the position, he in a deep lunge with his front leg braided with one of mine, firmly squared in a squat that would make Jillian Michaels proud, we counted down. One. Two. Three.


You Can't Find This on Tinder

Victory! The monster began to pimple jizz all over that wad of toilet paper and we were on our way. Almost simultaneously, as if it had been choreographed from our return visit to the blueprint on Project: Shit Zit, we turned to look in the mirror. In that moment, the flood of our current reality broke the dam of seriousness and we burst into a fit of laughter.

It was midnight. We were doing what we were doing. And we were gangbusters about it.

Barely getting our wits about us, we dove in to finish the job only to have to pause roughly half a dozen times because our giggles now weakened our well-thought foundation and if we kept at it, we were both going to fly face first into the bathtub. A vision that tossed us into another guffaw-spiral. There was no hope for us. Or rather there was all of the hope for us.

We finished up. We cleaned up. We snaked our dignity back out of the toilet and we went back to bed.

You can’t find this shit on Tinder, kids.

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