catharsis in vienna
There are many things they don't tell you about what happens when you grow up. You assume, for instance, that unsightly teenage blemishes are just that, and that when you get older they'll go away. Not so. I haven't had a zitless day since about ninth grade. Fortunately, I don't get the type of pimples that scar your face and mar how you look. They're always pretty small and inconsequential.
Catherine lives up to her Greek name by being an especially enthusiastic zit-popper. To be fair, it's not as much about catharsis, purification, with her (though the experience of having one's pimples popped pretty much follows every single element of Plato's definition of catharsis) as it is about fascination with the body. Ear wax, hair roots, it's all fair game with her.
This morning, as we lolled in bed sipping the Viennese light streaming through our big old windows, she popped so many zits on my forehead that she counted them. Forty-one. Slightly painful, in a pinpricky way, but who could deny her such obvious pleasure? Forty-one.
Catherine lives up to her Greek name by being an especially enthusiastic zit-popper. To be fair, it's not as much about catharsis, purification, with her (though the experience of having one's pimples popped pretty much follows every single element of Plato's definition of catharsis) as it is about fascination with the body. Ear wax, hair roots, it's all fair game with her.
This morning, as we lolled in bed sipping the Viennese light streaming through our big old windows, she popped so many zits on my forehead that she counted them. Forty-one. Slightly painful, in a pinpricky way, but who could deny her such obvious pleasure? Forty-one.
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