North of the river

A long-awaited Friday night dinner with friends gave me a zit of gigantic proportions on my chin that morning. Yes, gentle readers, I’m living proof there is geriatric acne.

It raised its ugly head on sock hop and date nights as a teenager, but is less predictable during these golden years of funerals, doctor appointments and other comings and goings.

Pimples are not a problem for an older friend of Russian lineage. And yes, there are people older than me. This elderly friend said a long, dark chin hair can sprout overnight, and if she doesn’t check herself out in a magnified mirror she’ll scare small children and animals when she goes out to check her mail.

That reminds me of a Christmas Eve party a few years ago when I chatted with an Oklahoma City judge who had a round band-aid on the bridge of her nose. It was almost between her eyes. You couldn’t help but see it, wonder what was under the tiny bandage, or how she carried off her cavalier attitude that made you think there was nothing there.

I hoped it wasn’t a skin cancer she’d had removed, and decided whatever prompted the band-aid was off limits for discussion. So I brought up politics.

That caused both of us to find the bar.

She talked about crowded dockets, the need for more judges and better pay, and I mentioned how slow the justice system works.

Then after my second glass of wine I told the band-aid lady that too many federal judges make laws from the bench.

Our girl time came to a halt!

When she walked away I wondered what I’d tell our friends who hosted the party.

Then the judge returned, and handed me a napkin.

“You have blood on your chin,” she said.

Surely I thanked her before I went into the powder room and discovered I had a pimple near my bottom lip.

You’ll be happy to know I resisted the urge to go back and ask the federal judge for a band-aid. I know my husband and our friends were.