As a medical professional, I must say, you’re not exactly a welcome guest. For years, you were merely a tale I heard from patients and friends—an inevitability that would strike others but not me. My mother would often caution, “Be careful with that sun exposure; it’ll catch up with you.” Little did I know those warnings were not just for my ears but would echo back to me one day.
Now that I’m in my 30s, I find myself face to face with you—literally. I remember the first time you appeared; I was in denial, attributing those lines to bad lighting or the creases from an unyielding pillow. However, as the months rolled by, it became evident that you weren’t leaving anytime soon; you made yourself quite comfortable on my skin.
Honestly, you could have given me a heads-up. A simple message like, “Hey, we’d like to take up residence around your eyes and settle into those forehead creases,” would have sufficed. I would have politely declined and continued my quest for eternal youth. Instead, you crept in, unannounced, like a forgotten ex lurking on social media.
Sure, I may have spent my youth soaking up the sun without a care, but does that mean I should be punished now? My liver isn’t holding my past mistakes against me, so why must you? I’ve tried everything to fend you off—walking around with a blank expression (until I stepped in dog poop), using every cream and potion from the local pharmacy, even resorting to bizarre Pinterest hacks like Scotch tape and aspirin dissolved in water.
I’ve attempted to rebrand you, referring to you as “character lines” or “smile marks” instead of “crow’s feet.” I’ve told myself these lines are badges of joy, but let’s be honest: if these are reminders of happiness, then those forehead lines scream surprise, and the ones around my mouth indicate I’m perpetually displeased.
I know a dermatologist could help me wage war against you, but let’s face it—my budget is more suited for drugstore finds than high-end treatments. I’ll keep applying sunscreen and convincing myself that your presence signifies wisdom and grace.
Wrinkles, I get it; you are a part of life, and I should be grateful for the years I’ve had. However, couldn’t you give me a few more years before making yourself at home? Perhaps wait until I’m eligible for senior discounts or until my skin is done battling acne? I might even start claiming I’m 60 to make you seem less imposing.
In summary, while I anticipate our time together, I kindly ask that you take a break and revisit me in a couple of decades. I’ll be more willing to accept your presence then.
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