Not Justin, really, but:
Conversation with Justin when he just woke up and I finished e-whining about my nose:
O: Look at my face. Do I have a black eye? Look at my eye.
J: [eyes are not quite open, squinting into the sun and the opening of day]
O: Really!?!! Look again. Is it swollen?
J: A little bit.
O: Where is it black?
J: Just right there. A little bit. [He pointed to the inner bridge of my nose, where my glasses would rest if they didn't hurt to wear.]
Later, when his eyes are more open and we are in the lighting of the bathroom mirror.
O: Look again. Is my eye lid black? I'm trying to see it, but I can't?
J: How can you see your own eye lid? 'Oh, when my eyes are closed it's black!'
O: No, I go like this: [I squinted one eye with my head raised so I could see myself in the medicine cabinet mirror, then I switched eyes]. Look again.
J: [looks--getting exhasperated. Hardy Marine.] You don't have a black eye. It's just dark circles.
My eyes were closed and he leaned in for a kiss but got the splatter of a shocked woman who would have spat her martini in his eye if she had been drinking one.
I will grow old gracefully. I do not have a black eye. I am not banged up. I have no bruises. I am tough and graceful and full of vitality.
Dark circles. Hmph. People sometimes think I am in my early 20s. Ten years younger than my age! I will not dye my hair or lift my face or boobs or neck. I'll do yoga and run and be old and beautiful and strong. But first I have to go to the orthodontist now, to have my teeth adjusted, which I would have done as a teenager if I could afford it. It's better now in my thirties though--I brush obsessively. (Which I probably would have done in my teens too... I've always been obsessed with brushing my teeth. It's a very comforting activity.)
...when I'm 64...