I’m throwing a pity party for myself. I know that’s shocking to all of you. I’m either complaining about something or feeling sorry for myself. Today it’s feeling sorry for myself.

You all, I have wrinkles.

There I admitted it and it doesn’t sound any better when I type it out.

I’ve had gray hair for a while. Not full-out gray, but I’d find one here and there since high school. I handled it well. I didn’t freak out and I would just pull it out of my scalp and move on. Granted I would spend about ten minutes examining it to make sure it was in fact gray and not an errant blond hair that grew in.

But wrinkles? WRINKLES?!! I’m not even thirty! I was staring at myself in the mirror, full face of make-up and there they were–crows feet. Some people call them laugh lines, I refuse to call them laugh lines. They’re more like depression lines. I think I would never smile again if it meant these wrinkles would go away. [Insert sad trombone here]

There’s just something so permanent about wrinkles. I’ve already been researching how to get rid of them. The plumping creams and the line fillers. It’s made me want to crawl in a hole and never show my face again.

Either that or have a facelift.

Call me crazy, but I may be overreacting a wee bit. If you see scotch tape at my temples holding up my sagging jowls just throw me in the loony bin.

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