I rounded the corner into my late thirties last September with a whoop whoop; a delicious meal surrounded by the happy chatter of all my best friends and then a karaoke battle with beautiful Filipino transvestites. It was kind of perfect.
I’m okay being closer to 40 than 20. My tits are high (ish). Don’t look when I’m planking though – they do their best impression of two fleshy and depleted IV bags. I can still keep up with my kid when she sprints down a drugstore aisle looking for a kidnapper. I even occasionally get ID’d when I buy my husband cigarettes. You should see the security footage of those transactions as I swoon and eagerly whip out my driver’s license, all shoulders back and smug smile as the clerk’s eyes dart appreciatively from me to my ID and back again.
This face of mine saves my ass. (That ass. A little worn in the saddle but we’ll leave that body part to be ridiculed for another time.) After years of very careful sun avoidance and many MANY dollars spent on exotic creams that are probably composed of lizard semen tempered with cold cream in a giant vat, this face looks much younger. Crow’s feet are faint. Smile lines are more like smirk lines. It’s pale and pasty but on a good day, with the right amount of bronzer and blush, it can look a tiny bit Pre-Raphaelite.
Cue the clock striking midnight on 2013 and all the pores in my face taking a moonlight swim through butter. Suddenly my face is a pimpled mess; every day a new bump waves hello with two middle fingers as I scowl in the mirror like Clint Eastwood in a sand storm. Oh the rage! The pain! The indignation! NO. Fuck. NO.
Come on sweet face, I cajole. We’ve been through so much together. We escaped the great mouthwash debacle of 1994. (PRO TIP – just because toothpaste is supposed to dry out a pimple, one would be advised to not smear cinnamon mouthwash all over one’s face while at a sleepover and then muffle shrieks into guest towels as one’s face burns with the heat of a thousand planetary suns.) We handily careened through a pregnancy with a buffet of hormones coursing through our body. I thought we were cool, man.
I’m not pounding down fatty garbage anymore. I’m being diligent about face cream, vitamins, exercise, washing my pillowcase, steaming my face, deep pore cleaning and on and on. When my three year old grabs my face with her soft little fingers for a smooch, I swat them away, lest those germy paws leave behind invisible goo that will surely clog my pores. I’m choosing you over my CHILD, face. What more could you possibly want from me?
Having the hilariously amazing combination of wrinkles and acne is straight bullshit. I don’t really know what my next steps are, but I suspect they involve me in the bathroom playing a very intense game of Russian roulette with a bottle of cinnamon mouthwash.