Written by Emily
I am at a crossroads.
Last night, as I prepared to go to a fundraiser, I examined my face and my make-up routine a bit closer than I would have liked. It happened unexpectedly, really.
I rubbed anti-wrinkle serum on my face–a primer and new addition to my limited repertoire, a practice I started after reading that women in their thirties should use products with retinol. Nevermind that I’ve tried before and felt as though I was giving myself a chemical peel. As with heels, no pain, no gain. Right? Right?! As instructed, I massaged the gel in small circles about my face and neck.
I paused and waited for the face “tingle.” And then I noticed.
There, on my forehead, staring back at me were two lovely pimples. I can only imagine they were too excited to miss the fundraiser, so they pushed to the surface like overzealous teens at a Justin Bieber concert.
So here I am, at a strange intersection between puberty and old age.
I am no longer playing the role of adult; I am one. Well, the three children screaming with my beloved sitter suggest that I am. The anti-wrinkle serum rudely announces that I am.
These pimples, though–of all the things I might want to cling to from my youth, these are not it. And, yet, these are the things that remain. A bit unfair, don’t you think?
I can only hope the retinol from my anti-wrinkle serum will burn those suckers into oblivion. Take that.
Why am I cringing?