Dear Wrinkles,
You were once just a cautionary tale—an ominous warning from my mother about the perils of aging. “Stop squinting like that; it’ll give you wrinkles!” she’d say, slathering her face with every cream known to humankind to fend off your eventual arrival.
Fast forward to my mid-30s, and look who’s crashed the party—yup, it’s you! At first, I refused to accept your presence, blaming everything but you. Bad lighting? Check. My pillow leaving creases? Check. This new concealer being a total disaster? Double check! But eventually, I had to face the music: you weren’t just visiting; you were settling in for the long haul.
A little heads-up would have been nice, Wrinkles. Like, “Hey, how’s it going? Mind if I set up camp around your eyes? Maybe spread out across your forehead?” I would’ve politely declined and continued to look 25. Instead, you crept in unnoticed, like an unwanted ex stalking my social media.
Sure, I may have basked in the sun without a care back in the day, but shouldn’t I get a pass for my youthful indiscretions? My liver hasn’t turned on me for my college shenanigans, so why can’t you cut me some slack?
I’ve tried everything to keep you at bay. I even attempted to walk around expressionless—no raised eyebrows, no crinkled nose—but then I stepped in dog poop within 20 minutes and realized that plan was a flop. I’ve invested in every product that promises to buff, peel, and plump you away, like a skincare hitman on a mission. I even tried some Pinterest hacks involving Scotch tape and crushed aspirin (not at the same time, of course; that would be just weird).
In my more optimistic moments, I’ve called you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet,” trying to convince myself that they’re badges of happiness. “These smile lines mean I’ve had so much joy!” I say to my reflection, hoping for a spark of belief. But if those lines signal happiness, then the ones on my forehead suggest I’m constantly shocked, and the ones around my lips mean I’m perpetually pursed like a disgruntled cat.
I know a dermatologist could help persuade you to leave, but let’s be real—you’re here to stay. My heart might say Botox, but my wallet screams Walmart. So, I’ll continue my battle with drugstore wrinkle removers and quirky home remedies, slather on sunscreen like it’s my second skin, and give myself pep talks about how your presence adds “maturity” and “dignity” to my look.
I get it, Wrinkles; you’re inevitable. And yes, I should be grateful to have reached an age where I can even worry about you. But really, couldn’t you have waited until I’m eligible for senior discounts? Or at least until my teenage acne is a distant memory? Maybe I’ll just start telling people I’m 60—then I’ll look fabulous for my age.
In conclusion, I’ve got plenty of time left with my face, so if you could ease up on your decorating duties, that would be awesome. Take a little break and come back in a couple of decades, alright? I might be more open to you then. Maybe.
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