A look at the world through my eyes. Well, just part of the world.

It’s wedding season ­– the time of year when most people without a significant other begin to doubt their statuses as socially acceptable human beings.

Or in my case, this is the time when I begin to obsess over my appearance and worry endlessly about looking good for no one in particular.

I had been eagerly awaiting my cousin’s wedding last weekend as an opportunity to sport a new suit and amaze my extended family with my sweeping knowledge of Bar Mitzvah dance routines. But my excitement was brought to a crashing halt when I woke up three days before the event with an enormous pimple protruding from my forehead.

And I’m not talking about a minor blemish here. This thing was so big, it gave me flashbacks to sixth grade when I made all my friends refer to my pimple by the name “Montana” because I decided it was the size of a state.

I know I shouldn’t have let something as trivial as a zit put a damper on my mood, but I found it a bit difficult to act bright and bubbly with Mount Vesuvius sitting comfortably above my right eye.

Searching frantically for any cure to this miserable situation, I harnessed my inner teenage girl and told my mom I was hideous and needed a new face. She remained calm and supportive, as mothers always do, and assured me a little sun would clear my problem right up.

I figured I had nothing to lose. I got up early the next day and backyard tanned like I’ve never backyard tanned before. I set up my lawn chair and prepared all my essentials: my iPod and the same book I’ve been attempting to read for two years.

About five minutes into this bronze fest, my neighbor came outside to mow his lawn. I immediately grew self-conscious. I could feel his judgmental stare calling me all sorts of distasteful things.

“White trash,” it said in a mocking tone.

“White trash, my ass,” I thought, as I adjusted my New York Giants beach towel. “Give me another 30 minutes out here and you’ll be calling me caramel trash.”

But my backyard escapade lasted much longer than that. About two hours later, I found myself still lying there in the same spot. By this point, I was running out of comfortable positions and had propped my legs up in a way that made me look like I was paying a visit to the gynecologist.

I came inside hoping to look in the mirror and realize that my acne had miraculously disappeared. What I got was another realization entirely.

I forgot to wear sunblock.

The vibrancy of my face and torso startled my sister when I bumped into her upstairs.

“Am I a stop sign?” I asked her.

She tilted her head to the side and gave me a reassuring smile.

“It’s a lovely shade of fuchsia,” she said.

Of course, the beauty of this whole situation is that people definitely wouldn’t be noticing my third eye at the wedding. I had a great time at the affair and have never been more excited to see red-tinted mood lighting in my life.

And though I have since sprouted a second pimple above my other eye that makes it look like I’m growing horns, I’m happy knowing the first thing people will notice is that my face is peeling at a superhuman pace.

Besides, my next wedding isn’t for another three weeks.