Dear Wrinkles,
You were once just a tale my friends shared, a cautionary warning I heard from my mother, who would say, “If you keep making that face, you’re going to end up with wrinkles.” She’d be slathering all sorts of creams on her skin, trying to ward off your unwelcome arrival.
Now that I’m in my mid-30s, it seems we’ve met—face to face, or more accurately, you’ve made yourself at home on my face. Initially, I didn’t want to admit it, blaming everything else. “Wow, this lighting is terrible!” or “My pillow must be leaving these awful impressions!” But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that you weren’t just passing through; you were here for the long haul.
You could have given me a heads-up. A simple, “Hey, mind if we crash around your eyes? Maybe spread ourselves across your forehead?” And I would have politely said, “No, thank you,” and continued to look youthful. But instead, you crept in quietly, like an ex lurking on social media. Suddenly, you were in places I never expected to wrinkle.
Sure, I may have had my fun in the sun back in the day, but I’ve learned my lesson. Must you really hold my youthful indiscretions against me? My liver certainly hasn’t turned on me for those wild college years!
I’ve tried everything to keep you at bay. I even considered walking around with a completely straight face—not a raised brow or crinkled nose to aid your existence—but then I stepped into dog mess within 20 minutes and realized how absurd that was. I’ve invested in products that promise to buff you away and others that claim to plump you up until you vanish entirely, like some sort of skin vigilante. I’ve dabbled in Pinterest hacks like Scotch tape and crushed aspirin (but not together, because that would just be strange!).
I’ve even tried to make peace with you by calling you “smile lines” instead of “crow’s feet,” convincing myself they’re badges of happiness. “These smile lines are just reminders of all the joy I’ve experienced!” I tell my reflection, hoping that saying it aloud will somehow convince me. But if those lines mean I’m happy, then the furrows on my forehead suggest I’m in a perpetual state of shock, and the ones around my lips imply they’re tightened more than a drum. I can’t quite manage to embrace it all.
I know a dermatologist or plastic surgeon could help persuade you to leave, but let’s be real. You’re sticking around. My heart screams for Botox, but my wallet says, “Only drugstore brands for you!” So, I’ll keep assaulting you with various wrinkle removers and quirky home remedies, slather on sunscreen before stepping outside, and attempt to convince myself that your presence makes me look “sophisticated” and “poised.”
I get it, Wrinkles. I know I should be grateful to reach an age where I’m even worried about you. But seriously. Couldn’t you have shown up when I’m eligible for senior discounts? Or at least after my teenage acne phase? Maybe I’ll just tell folks I’m 60. Then I’d look fabulous for my age!
In the end, I have plenty of time left with my face, and I’d really appreciate it if you took your role as my “decorator” a little less seriously. So how about you take a break for a couple of decades, okay? I might be more receptive to your presence later.
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Summary
In this humorous letter to Wrinkles, the author reflects on the inevitability of aging, reminiscing about youthful days and the attempts to ward off wrinkles. With a light-hearted tone, she shares experiences and remedies while contemplating the reality of aging gracefully.