STRANGER THAN FICTION: BAD SKIN LEAVES BLEMISHES ON MEMORIES OF YOUTH

There are certain problems you expect to have when you're 25, like making the mortgage payment on your beautiful new home or deciding whether you want the new Probe or equally beautiful Stealth.

At age 16, I figured those would be big problems. Life would be so much better working as a producer for NBC news than going to school and working afternoons for a philandering boss who hated me.

Have I mentioned how hellish my teen-age years were? There's no way I'd attend my 10-year reunion, because someone would say, "Wasn't high school fun? All the boys and parties, cheerleading, slumber parties and gossip!"

Then I'd vomit directly in the punch, and everyone would remember me as even more of a nerd than I actually was.

In addition to dealing with my parents' philosophy of "All work and no play makes Heidi a responsible adult" -- fooled them -- I had BAD SKIN.

Yes, the topic is disgusting, especially to you clear-skinned people who have had heart attacks over a minor blemish on your upper forehead.

But you people who know what it feels like to dream that an oily "T-zone" is your only problem are screaming, "Testify, sister!"

The commercials didn't help me any:

"Hey, here comes Pizza Face."

"Like, Brad, stop it! You know Herbert doesn't have a clue!"

"Trish, he could buy Zitzapper like the rest of us."

They always showed some distraught girl with one lousy zit whining about how it would ruin the prom. I'll never forget the line: "Here's my bright red dress to go with my bright red zit." What a concept in accessories!

But Mom, bless her soul, finally convinced Dad to shell out a few bucks for the dermatologist.

I felt better on my very first trip, because during my two-hour wait a man with a large growth directly on the end of his nose came in and sat down right next to me. I realized, even if the doctor said, "Miss Nieland, you have acneous permanentious, and there's nothing I can do," life wouldn't be as bad as if I had a big growth on my nose.

With a few years of antibiotics and cream that actually burned when I applied it, my skin was relatively clear, all at my parents' expense. Then it happened: I became AN ADULT, and Mom said I was on my own, bill-wise.

Everyone knows that adults don't have to worry about bad skin. It's a teen thing, right? Adults just worry about which dress to buy and how to make their children's lives hell. So I quit going for my monthly dose of drugs.

Granted, my skin never got as bad as my teen years, but at age 25 I still rent an apartment instead of owning a home and drive a Tercel, not a Porsche. And I STILL USE ACNE MEDICATION!

It's not a pleasant confession to make, but I see you fellow adult sufferers out there, sneaking into Wal-Mart at 1 a.m. to make your dirty little purchases.

The only thing worse than having the problem is having people point it out to you. Maybe men aren't as sensitive about this sort of thing, but a co-worker actually walked up to me this week and said, "Look! We have matching zits!"

Alas, we did, but you just don't say that to a woman, OK?

Maybe one day the battle will be over, but lately I've been having dreams about a 70-year-old woman applying Oxy-10.

I think it's me.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.