At 31, I have become a hunter. My victim, like others, is speechless, but mocks me none the less. I zig, he zags. I spend a lot of time just trying to locate my prey, like a deer hunter in a tree stand. If I lose sight of him, I know I just have to be patient....he'll be back.... mocking me in his mean-spirited mockery.
I squint as to try and see him better....where the hell did he go? I can feel him, but I can't see him. I don't even like hunting, and there I sat, waiting. And waiting. And looking. Where the hell is it?!? I try to look from different angles, at no avail. I try to rely on the light to help me see him, and sometimes, at the right angle, I see the punk. Then quick as a flash, he's gone. Again. I lost him again!
Sigh. Well, I guess I will just have to give up for now. I know I will have another opportunity in the near future. I know that I will be able to hear Dion say, "What the hell is that? Is that a hickey?" I know that I will be able to explain to him again that with my chemically induced menopause comes some rather prickly unwanted facial hair. I know that next time my tweezers won't fail me and I will pull that punk out from the root, hold it up in the air and produce a victory scream for all to hear. Until the punk grows back.
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