Lately, I’ve found myself dedicating time to some unexpected companions that have entered my otherwise calm life. At 39, with two children who are now school-aged, I assumed my days of intense caretaking were behind me, aside from my aging parents. I was looking forward to at least a decade of relatively carefree living—days reminiscent of my twenties, where hours seemed endless and nights were spent peacefully next to my husband. I was enjoying a sweet spot, free from the nightly wake-ups of young kids and the discomforts of menopause. In short, life felt worry-free.
Then, last night, my five-year-old daughter created a charming portrait of me, complete with six distinct lines on my forehead. I guess I’m now officially wrinkled.
At first, I didn’t recognize them. After all, she’s just a child, and while I appreciate her artistic flair, we all make mistakes. When she excitedly showed me her drawing, I complimented her colors and attention to detail. But when I asked about the extra lines, she simply said, “Your lines. On your face.” She gazed directly at my forehead, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh,” I replied, my smile fading.
I turned to my older son for a second opinion. “You can’t really see them when it’s dark,” he remarked, barely lifting his eyes from his book—apparently, he had already noticed them. I moved to a dimmer area and asked again. “It has to be darker,” he insisted. “Much darker.”
That evening, I made an effort to seem youthful and vivacious during our bedtime routine. I danced down the hall with my daughter to fetch her pajamas, did a little jig in my son’s room until he begged me to stop, and even attempted a hula while we brushed our teeth. It was messy, but I figured my spirited display was worth the clean-up.
Since then, I’ve tried to welcome my wrinkles as new friends. I’ve been attentive to them every night since their arrival. I’ve invested in creams, a special brush that rotates over them before bed, and a new satin pillow ordered to ensure they stay comfortable and youthful. I even scheduled a dermatologist appointment in their honor. What will transpire there, my wrinkles and I have yet to decide.
My husband has heard a lot about these new “friends,” but he’s not interested in naming them. I’ve been brainstorming ideas and ensuring they are included in all conversations—after all, that’s what good friends do. I’ve noticed how often acquaintances check in on me during the day, which is truly nice. I now understand the importance of connection; my wrinkles and I are just fine, thank you for asking.
These wrinkle friends have become a hobby of mine, as I research their care and future possibilities. The sheer amount of information available online is staggering. They have numerous options! I see them now as loyal companions; they never leave my side, and we spend plenty of time together in front of the mirror. I like to think they feel well-acquainted.
I know people who have opted for invasive procedures to erase their wrinkles, but I’m hesitant about the potential side effects, like drooping eyebrows. I’d rather keep my wrinkle friends close. Therefore, we’ve decided to forgo the dermatologist appointment. From now on, I’ll keep the lights dim.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s journey of accepting her new wrinkles, sparked by her daughter’s innocent drawing. As she navigates the emotional and physical changes of aging, she learns to embrace her wrinkles as friends rather than flaws. The piece humorously captures her efforts to maintain a youthful spirit while also addressing the realities of growing older.