Popping

I love to pop stuff. Lucky for me, in this humidity my face is a mass of giant zits. I've been digging at them obsessively and now I'm sad that I look like a disaster for my rugby reunion at Penn State this weekend. But juicy face zits are NOTHING at all compared to that bubble on my sister's burn. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to contain myself despite medical advice.

She's loaded up on Vicadin and is a nurse, so she knows that she can't go touching her burn wound, let alone popping the huge bubble. By day three, it had swelled up to this size:


My mom took her to the doctor, who suggested Betsy let him pop it. I say, no fair. I would have gladly driven 4 hours home to juice that bag. Just because he has a medical degree, my sister let him try to "heal" her. I think I should have been a doctor. I hear there is lots of popping involved. Katrina Firlik, whose book I reviewed, talks about popping little cysts that grow on people's brains. My friend Kathleen is a veterinarian and she gets to pop things on animals all the time.

Maybe, instead of being a doctor, I could be a popper. Like a moyel, only I go around popping things people no longer want attached to their bodies. Who would hire me?