So I’m walking up Sixth Avenue from my eyeball doctor (everything is fine with my peepers) heading to the subway, when out from the homeless shadows of a urine-scented church comes a voice directed to me.

“Proactiv works!”

Ah, thanks for the advice.

I immediately change course and stop in for a XXL steamed pork bun.

The problem is larger in scope than simply adult onset acne. Soon, I won’t need to set fire to anything; my chubby thighs will cause enough friction to burst into flames on their own accord.

I also had to buy new basketball shoes (”yeah I got on sneaks, but I need a new pair”) and had to get rid of my new running shoes because my toes were smooshed.

And — (stop reading if you are a male colleague prone to uncomfortable-ness)

–

(have you stopped reading?)

– I haven’t had to wear my chicken cutlet bra in, like, two months. I had to stop running yesterday because of the soreness associated with non-typing movement. (Ahem.) I noticed el dirty pillows taking up more room several weeks ago, figured it was a temporary hormonal aberrance (is that a word?), but (with the exception of a four-day hiatus) these things have stayed big. After being annoyed by the pain (how do women with actual boobies actually ever become athletes?) with every step, I must admit I was fascinated by them in my post-workout shower.

So let’s consider: zits so bad homeless people are shouting advice at me, weight gain, feet growing, bigger boobs.

Am I suffering from adult onset puberty? What the heck is going on with my boobs?!?

Man, I just bought new towels, I can’t go buyin’ a new flock o’ bras too.

Dad is here!! Over a delicious dinner at 360 in Red Hook, amongst discussion of high frequency ring tones, Dad came up with a brilliant entrepreneurial idea: nutraceuticals that make your farts smell like roses or peaches or new cars.

Perhaps eternally recurring teenage-dom, much like diarrhea, runs in the jeans genes.