Dear Wrinkles,
You used to be a distant worry, a tale shared by others. My mom warned me about you, saying, “Careful with that squinting! It’ll give you wrinkles,” all while she layered on yet another cream in a valiant effort to keep you at bay.
Now that I’m in my mid-30s, it seems I’ve finally met you face to face—well, more accurately, you’ve taken up residence on my face. Initially, I tried to deny your existence, attributing your unwelcome arrival to bad lighting, the creases my pillow left, or the streaky new concealer I bought. But as time progressed, it became clear you weren’t leaving anytime soon; you were settling in for a long haul.
A little heads-up would’ve been nice. Like, “Hey there! Mind if we hang out around your eyes? Maybe stretch out across your forehead? Oh, and let’s make those lips look like a butthole?” I would have politely declined and maintained my youthful appearance. Instead, you crept in silently, much like an ex popping up on social media without warning.
Sure, I may have made youthful mistakes—soaking up the sun and all that—but do I really deserve this? My liver didn’t turn against me for my college antics, after all.
I’ve tried everything to keep you at bay. I even thought about walking around like a stone-faced statue—no raised eyebrows, no crinkled nose—to avoid your encroachment. But that plan crumbled when I stepped in dog poop after just 20 minutes. I buy products promising to buff and peel you away, hoping to find the dermatological equivalent of a hitman that will erase your existence. I’ve even experimented with Pinterest hacks involving Scotch tape and dissolved aspirin (not at the same time, of course, that would just be odd).
In a moment of desperation, I attempted to embrace you. I called you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet,” trying to convince myself that you were badges of honor for all the joy I’ve experienced. But if those are indeed reminders of my happiness, then the lines on my forehead suggest I’m always in shock, and the ones around my lips imply they’ve been pursed like a disgruntled politician. No matter how hard I try, I can’t trick myself into feeling proud of your presence.
Sure, I could seek help from a dermatologist or plastic surgeon to persuade you to leave, but let’s be real—you’re here to stay. My heart may yearn for Botox, but my wallet says Walmart. So, I’ll continue to bombard you with drugstore wrinkle removers and strange home remedies, slather on sunscreen before stepping outside, and try to convince myself that you make me look “mature” and “dignified.”
I get it, Wrinkles; I should be grateful for the privilege of aging. But honestly, couldn’t you wait until I qualify for senior discounts? Or at least until I’ve outgrown the occasional pimple? Maybe I’ll start telling everyone I’m 60. Then I’ll look fantastic for my age!
In the end, I have plenty of time left on this face, and I’d appreciate it if you would take your role a little less seriously. So why don’t you take a break and come back in a couple of decades? I might be more receptive to your presence then. Maybe.
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