You used to be a distant worry, something I only heard about from friends and family. My aunt would tell tales of your ruthless arrival while applying her endless array of creams to fend you off. “You keep making that face, and you’ll end up with fine lines,” she’d warn, all while I rolled my eyes, blissfully unaware.
Fast forward to my mid-30s, and here we are, face to face. Or rather, you’re invading my face. At first, I thought I was imagining things. “Is it the lighting in here? Is my pillow really that awful? Or maybe this new foundation is just horrible!” But reality hit: you’ve taken up residence, and there’s no eviction notice in sight.
A little heads-up would have been nice. Like, “Hey, just popping in to see if we could make a cozy home around your eyes and maybe lounge on your forehead?” I would have firmly declined and continued looking a solid 25. Instead, you’ve snuck in like an old flame stalking my social media, settling in without so much as a how-do-you-do.
Sure, I spent my youth sunbathing and slathering on lotions without a care. But come on, do I really deserve to be punished for my teenage tanning bed days? My liver seems to have forgiven me for college mischief.
I’ve tried everything to keep you at bay: practicing an emotionless existence until a dog poop incident reminded me how impractical that is. I’ve explored all the products claiming to buff you away, promising to make you vanish like a magic trick. I’ve even resorted to Pinterest hacks involving Scotch tape and crushed aspirin (though never at the same time—that’s a bit much).
And let’s not forget my attempts to embrace you by calling you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet.” I tell myself these are simply badges of joy, but if they’re evidence of happiness, then the lines on my forehead suggest I look like I’m perpetually shocked, and the ones around my lips could indicate I’m more tightly wound than I’d like to admit.
Sure, a dermatologist could help convince you to leave, but who am I kidding? You’re here to stay. My heart says Botox, but my wallet says Walmart. So, I’ll keep trying drugstore remedies, slathering on sunscreen like it’s my second skin, and telling myself your presence makes me look “mature” and “refined.”
I know you’re inevitable, Fine Lines. I get that aging is a privilege, but couldn’t you have waited until I was eligible for a senior discount? Or at least until my skin settled down from its acne phase? Maybe I’ll just claim I’m 60; then I’ll be considered fabulous for my age.
In short, I have plenty of time left with this mug of mine, so I’d appreciate it if you took it easy on the whole “decorating” thing. How about you take a little hiatus and return in a couple of decades? I might just be ready for you then.
For more tips on navigating the trials of aging gracefully, check out this excellent resource about pregnancy and home insemination from the CDC. And if you’re interested in learning about at-home options, visit Make a Mom for their authority on insemination kits.
Summary: The author humorously laments the arrival of fine lines in her mid-30s, reflecting on her youthful ignorance regarding skincare and her futile attempts to combat aging. While acknowledging the inevitability of wrinkles, she playfully asks them to take a break until she’s more prepared for their presence.