Lately I have been having a problem with adult acne. I blame it on some phantom hormone in one of the pills I am taking, or maybe it’s because of my shampoo or maybe I touch my face too much – I don’t know. What I do know is that I am breaking out like a fourteen year old.
This week while examining my blemishes with close anguish, I discovered something even more depressing: wrinkles.
Frown lines, to be exact. Not laugh lines, or even crows feet, I have frown lines.
It’s as if my body is saying to me “Welcome to thirty, bitch.” It’s a little preemptive, even, (I’m not thirty for another couple of months) but obviously cause for dismay. Can’t my face pick an age to be? Am I thirteen or am I forty? Should I be buying wrinkle cream or Proactiv? (If I put both on there will my face self destruct from product confusion?) And can’t I age gracefully with some wrinkly form of happiness? No, of course not. Frown lines, as if I have spent more years of my life sad than happy (is that true?).
I am slowly coming to grips that my hot twenty year old bod has been replaced by something a bit more dumpy. In the back of my head, maybe I still wish I will get that back, someday, but mostly I understand. I am an adult woman, thus I will have the corresponding body type. Okay. Fine.
But frown lines and acne? What kind of a world are we living in? Or perhaps I have simply descended into some level of hell where all the people who thought they would be pretty forever are sent to after twenty-nine. Am I being dramatic?
Oh yes. Yes I am.
Take THAT thirty!