“It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple.”

—Leonard Cohen- The Favourite Game

One day it was there. Invading my body and using all my resources for its own gain. A truly insidious condition. An evil so malignant it could only have been concocted by a madman bent on destroying the social lives of the human race.

In my ninth grade science class I overheard a conversation between my desk partner, a short and slightly over dramatic girl who wore skateboarding shoes and a guy with too much gel in his hair, about the awkward stages of puberty. The trials and tribulations of a changing body and Skate Shoes’ particular distaste for these changes, especially in young men. I sat quietly working on biology problems while silently thanking the powers that be that I had evaded this transitional stage into adulthood. My reasoning was if it hadn’t happened yet, by the time I was starting high school and cruising into year fourteen then I had made it unscathed, with only a measure of time before more hair started cropping up in those key regions of manhood (namely the armpits, chest and lower pelvic region).

In hindsight I now see I was as oblivious as my science teacher was when Skate Shoes decided to smoke a bowl right next to me in the back of the classroom. As the pungent aroma of marijuana began to fill the air I wondered how this could go unnoticed by Mr. Varshni who sat at the front of the room grading our daily tests.

A scholastic institution at Crocus Plains Regional Secondary School. Mr. Varshni had been around since the school opened in 1974 and his claim to fame was his fond recount of his youth in India where they regularly enjoyed marijuana milkshakes. He also holds a special distinction in my mind as the single teacher who had to be called back to his class over the P.A.. “Paging Mr. Varshni, Mr. Varshni PLEASE return to your classroom.” The voice on the P.A. had no sympathy, even for wayward staff.

Perhaps it was this petulance for pot that accounted for his oversight that day or maybe it was that he was pushing his mid-sixties or the most likely: that he finally decided he did not give a shit anymore. Yet, if this oversight in the activities during his class had anything to do with his age it only enhances my severe naivety of the inner workings of my own body. The ignorance of youth meets the senility of old in a cloud of smoke.

It wasn’t until a couple years later that wily door-to-door salesman named Puberty came a-knocking and, like any other teenager I had no choice but to invite him in for a drink. At first he was quite harmless, even advantageous as he pulled a growth spurt out of his suitcase. I finally shed the infamous baby fat that had given me such a rotund figure for the better part of fifteen years. But as Puberty’s visit wore on there started to be some nastiness. That old family heirloom that sat next to the sofa? Well he threw that bitch out the window and then urinated on my grandmother’s ashes resting above the fireplace.

The onset of acne vulgaris those unsightly red and white growths on my face did not dramatically affect my social standing in high school. But I did get some flak because I didn’t just pop every single malignant bastard that cropped up on my face. What my friends didn’t understand and what I tried to explain was that if I popped them then I would get a scar. I’d be damned if I wasn’t coming out of this whole mess with a pretty face.

For all of my endurance in this first plague of pimples there were some who took it harder than others. My father Brig, a man of staunch economic value and utility broke down in his hotel room at an undisclosed location in North Dakota. In a fit of emotional outpouring he did what he had never done before, purchased a product off the television: “Pro-Activ.” He told me he was moved by the happiness displayed by the users “Pro-Activ.” in their testimonials and hoped that this would lift my spirits as much as those talking heads. As much as I appreciated the gesture from my father (who had also dealt with Puberty’s harsh hand) he failed to realize that I was not depressed about my acne. I was a teenager and thus depressed about life entirely.

Surprisingly, the over hyped regime worked on my fair skin and like a cloudy day, things began to clear up. High school graduation occurred with all the pomp and circumstance of a Midwestern dog show¹ though my graduation photo was heavily touched up. I thought Puberty was on its way out and my epidermis and I could get back on friendly terms. Oh, the folly of youth.

      The next fall I started my freshman year at university and discovered puberty had not actually left. While I was going to the bathroom the bastard had gone and hide in my upstairs closet, remerging sweaty and half naked at the phase in life where everything is supposed to start anew.

      The year started off well enough but trouble was brewing. My pores became islands unto themselves and since they were allotted such little space on my face they built upward. My pimples had pimples, layered in a tapestry that swelled and constantly changed. I went to my school’s doctor, despite my suspicions he just found a lab coat and actually worked for a manilla envelope company. However, he was the only doctor on campus. He knew my acne was bad so he did what any professional would do when the going gets tough: he sent me to another professional.

      The dermatologist I now refer to as “Dr. Skin” did not do much aside from saying “pustules” over and over and writing me a prescription for “Accutane.” He assured me it was no big deal. “You’ll only be on this advanced acne treatment for a little while. It kicks the shit out of the bastard! I’d say the most extreme dosage cycle would be no more than six months. After all it’s strong stuff, not a miracle cure for what ails the common teenager but damn well close! Oh yeah don’t give blood because it will hurt babies in utero and well… there is that side effect of depression but what the hell, give it a go.” I was on that stuff for over a year.

      While I was choking down this “advanced” pharmaceutical invention that inadvertently harms unborn children, the acne really began to hit its stride. The Christmas of my freshman year I was holding ice to my face like it was needed for the last pass in the Superbowl when my sister tells me about the latest emotional casualty in Puberty’s war on my life.

     “Mason, Mom’s been crying.” She told me as if I should already know.

      “Any reason?” I was only half paying attention. My school break was almost a zen like state consisting of rigorously eating and watching television on DVD.

      “She was doing the laundry and when she pulled out your pillowcase she started crying. There are blood stains all over it.”

      I was shocked. I had not realized I had been bleeding on my pillowcase up until that moment. Like any new college student I revelled in the freedom dorm life afforded: going without underwear for weeks, wandering around my room naked and avoiding the costly two dollar expense of doing laundry. It was this constant use of Febreeze and lack of properly cleaning my linens that had me perplexed; had this been going on for a while? I was, and in fact still am, years away from regularly sharing a bed with anyone else and could have no outside consultation on the matter.

      It is at this juncture I would have liked to have made a witty comparison between the bloodiness of my pillowcase a figure of my own transitional period that experienced during woman’s first period. Yet there was no significant movement on my part. I did not have an awakening or possess new capabilities. I felt no more a man from my tribulation than a woman. All I had was that goddamn bloody pillowcase.

      As is the case with most awkward stages in life it is worse in the photos. I tend to remember myself in close proximity to how I am today but the pictures create this terrible re-altering of events that leave me slightly disgusted. I am left wondering how anyone could have born to even look at me. Were their smiles fake? Why wasn’t anyone vomiting over the banister? If I had the time, and I probably do, I might consider changing all those photos. As much as much ego cries “Yes!” I cannot bring myself to do the deed. Those photos are a reminder of the gracious nature of all the people I knew at the time. It was like there was a telepathic memo sent out “Don’t mention the acne, I mean lets face it he knows what’s on his own face.”

      No, I did not realize how many people noticed until I finally was able to wrest Puberty out of the crawlspace under the stairs and toss him out a plate glass window. I don’t know if it was Dr. Skin’s magical-depressed-state-inducing-drug or my hormones evening out but slowly the rugged landscape of my face became more manageable. It was upon visiting my old friends that I heard the comments: “WOW, you sure look a lot better,” or “Man when did your face clear up?” even, “Jesus! We were worried you’d be like that forever.” I was again shocked. Part of me didn’t realize the deep undercurrent of concern centred around my face. Judging by the groundswell I imagine it was likely how 90% of the people on campus referenced me in conversation.

      Part of my rationale behind not having children is to spare them this fate. Although it should be said I don’t feel cheated out of anything. Did the state of Washington feel cheated when Mt. St. Helens decided to erupt? Did San Francisco cry out “Not fair!” When the earthquake hit? Perhaps, yet the affairs of nature and biology take their course as they may without providence for the well being of man or beast. Do I have the gall to suggest such tragedies could be transposed to my cosmetic misfortunes?⁽²⁾ Many had to die to learn this lesson. All I did was bleed on my pillow.

(1)  I graduated in the prairies of Canada. Such was our graduating class that we had to vote for our graduation song. The winner was a “hard rock” number by the infamous Canadian act: Default. It was this outrage that caused our classmates to band together (though presumably the Default number was chosen by the majority) and a petition hit the halls. “Not this!” A well organized contingent of the more “socially active” students cried. The only other petition I signed in my four years was to get soap in the boys washroom. The end result of the musical coup? An even more backwater number called “Here for a Good Time (Not a Long Time)” by Trooper. I am told this Vancouver Island band will play an organized gathering for $300 please don’t quote me on this information.

(2)For the most part, no.