Dear Wrinkles,
You were once a distant concern, a tale I heard from others—something my mother warned me about as she layered on yet another cream to stave off your arrival. “If you keep squinting like that, you’ll end up with wrinkles,” she’d preach. Fast forward to my mid-30s, and here we are—face to face, or more accurately, you’re firmly planted on my face.
Initially, I was in denial, attributing your presence to external factors. Oh, what terrible lighting! My pillow must be the culprit for these creases! This new concealer is definitely streaky! Yet, as time progressed, I realized you weren’t just an occasional visitor—you were moving in, getting cozy, and showing no signs of leaving.
You could’ve given me a heads-up. A simple message like, “Hey, how’s it going? Mind if we set up camp around your eyes and stretch across your forehead?” would’ve sufficed. I would’ve promptly said, “No way!” and continued to look like I was in my twenties. But instead, you crept in unnoticed, like an ex stalking my social media. Before I knew it, you had decided to take over areas of my face I never expected to wrinkle.
Sure, I might’ve basked in the sun a bit too much in my youth, but I’ve learned from those days. Do I really deserve to be punished for my past mistakes? My liver seems to have forgiven me for my college antics. Just saying.
I’ve tried countless remedies to keep you at bay. I even attempted to maintain a completely expressionless face—no raised brows or crinkled noses—but that plan crumbled when I stepped in dog poop within 20 minutes. I’ve invested in products that promise to buff, peel, and erase you, as if they were some kind of dermatological assassins. I’ve even dabbled in Pinterest hacks like Scotch tape and dissolved aspirin (but definitely not together—that would just be bizarre).
In a bid to accept you, I’ve called you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet,” convincing myself these are badges of happiness. “These smile lines are reminders of all the times I’ve laughed!” I tell myself, hoping that saying it out loud will make it true. But if smile lines signify joy, then these forehead lines mean I’m always surprised, and the ones around my lips suggest they’re pursed tighter than a politician’s during a debate. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to feel good about any of it.
I’m aware that a dermatologist or plastic surgeon could offer solutions to persuade you to pack your bags. But who am I kidding? You’re here for the long haul. My heart yearns for Botox, but my wallet screams “only drugstore brands.” So, I’ll keep bombarding you with wrinkle removers and quirky home remedies, slather on sunscreen before stepping into the sun, and give myself those pointless pep talks about how your presence adds “maturity” and “dignity” to my look.
I get it, Wrinkles. I should be grateful for the years I’ve had, even if you’re now a part of the package. But couldn’t you have waited until I was at least eligible for senior discounts at restaurants? Or maybe until my days of battling zits were behind me? Maybe I’ll just start telling people I’m 60. Then I’ll seem fabulous for my age.
In the end, I have plenty of time left with my face, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d lighten up on the “decorating.” So, how about taking a break and coming back in a couple of decades? I might be more receptive then.
Summary
This humorous piece addresses the unwelcome arrival of wrinkles as a woman navigates her mid-30s. Reflecting on past mistakes, she shares her attempts to combat their presence through various remedies and self-acceptance strategies, all while wishing for a reprieve from the signs of aging. The article offers a lighthearted take on a universal concern, reminding readers that aging is a part of life.