The Burdens Italians Bear

I'm a lot of things. One of the things I am is Italian. I exaggerate, talk with my hands, and find a way to work olive oil into most dinners. All stereotypes. All awesome.

But it ain't all easy. There are a few genetic handicaps that come with these ancient Roman roots. And, like all self-respecting daughters of Italy, I handle it with dignity by talking about them to anyone who will listen, and talking more loudly if that person starts to walk away.

Problem 1: Grease. Not the cooking kind. The skin kind. I've had acne since I was ten. As you can see in the right-hand column of this blog, I'm now 36. That's a long time. And it doesn't look like it's going to let up soon. Medication has been keeping it at bay, but all I have to do is miss one application to realize that the medicinal levy is barely holding back the deluge. Upside: I may never wrinkle, ever. If my experience is anything to go by, this is a fountain of youth, but the price of eternal youth is eternal zits.

Problem 2: I wear my food. I'm like a magnet. Or a Swiffer. Or a black hole into which chocolate, peanut butter, and tomato sauce are irresistibly drawn. That Tom Sauce is a sneaky fellow. I keep trying to keep him away from my pure sweaters, but he finds a way to get at them. And Chocolate Chip always seems to fall onto the couch, waiting to be sat upon so he can melt onto my pants. P. Butter has found his way onto, of all things, my eyelid.

Something to look forward to: Turning into my Nona, who talked about bowel issues at suppertime. "A little shit with your dinner," as she said. What's the Italian word for "classy?" We're that.