You used to be a story shared by others—a warning echoed by my mother. “If you keep squinting, those wrinkles will catch up with you!” she’d remind me while applying layer after layer of creams designed to delay your arrival.
Now, standing in my mid-30s, here you are, unmistakably present. At first, I dismissed you, blaming everything around me. “Wow, this lighting is terrible!” I’d say. “My pillow must be the culprit for those creases!” or “Is this new concealer supposed to look so streaky?” But with time, it became clear: you weren’t just a fleeting visitor; you were here to stay, making yourself comfortable on my skin.
A little heads-up would’ve been nice. Imagine if you’d called me first: “Hey there! Mind if we set up camp around your eyes? Maybe lounge across your forehead and give your lips a bit of a ‘butthole’ vibe?” I would’ve politely declined and kept my youthful glow. But no, you crept in quietly, much like that ex who keeps lurking on social media.
Sure, I’ve had my share of sunbathing and youthful indiscretions. But haven’t I matured since then? Is it really fair to be punished for my past? My liver hasn’t held a grudge against my college years, so why must you?
I’ve tried everything to fend you off. I even considered walking around expressionless to prevent further damage—but that plan went south when I accidentally stepped in dog poop. I’ve invested in countless products promising to buff you away, and I’ve experimented with home remedies like Scotch tape and dissolved aspirin (never at the same time, of course).
I’ve attempted to embrace you by renaming you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet,” convincing myself that they represent joy. “These smile lines show how happy I am!” I tell myself in front of the mirror, hoping to convince my own reflection. But if these are signs of happiness, then the furrows on my forehead must mean I’m perpetually shocked, and the lines around my lips indicate I’m always pouting.
Sure, a dermatologist or plastic surgeon could help evict you, but let’s be real. You’re not going anywhere. My heart might yearn for Botox, but my budget only allows for drugstore remedies. So, I’ll keep trying various wrinkle-fighting creams and applying sunscreen like it’s my second skin, all while telling myself you make me look “mature” and “elegant.”
I get it, Wrinkles. You’re a part of life, and I should be grateful for the years I’ve had. But couldn’t you hold off a little longer? Maybe until I qualify for senior discounts or until my skin clears up from those pesky pimples? Perhaps I’ll just start telling everyone I’m 60. Then I’ll seem fabulous for my age!
In conclusion, I have plenty of time left with this face of mine, and I’d greatly appreciate it if you could ease off a bit on the decorating. So how about you take a little break and check back in a couple of decades? I might be more welcoming then.
This article is a lighthearted take on the inevitability of aging, and for anyone interested in more insights, be sure to check out this other blog post about pregnancy and home insemination.