Initially, you start to surface so slowly that I almost think you are a mirage. I nearly rationalize you away, wanting, needing to believe you are a figment of my imagination. When I awoke this morning and spotted you greeting me with a fierce wave and a Hello! I was startled at first, as my concerted effort to keep my hands away from my face has surprisingly been successful. We both know, however, that absent-minded hand-grazing is not the only reason you show up. Indeed, as soon as the clock struck 30, you and my spiky gray hairs have occupied the front row of the bleachers, openly taunting my mere adulting existence. You enjoy severely punishing any fluctuation in my life. Perturbed by the pandemic? Too bad. Indulging in dairy, sugar, or any type of refined goodness to cope? Forget it. Committed to daily unflattering video-chats to acclimate to a new lifestyle? Oh well, you retort, with a sly shrug of your shoulders. Indeed, no grace is given with you. Instead, you, adult chin acne, are the bane of my existence, conspicuously staking your claim, guns blazing, at the worst time, every time.