For the last year or so, I’ve developed an obsession with aging, mainly how to avoid it. Last April I went to a baby shower and the gift bags included a product called Boob Tube that allegedly aids in bust firming. It’s supposed to make your boobs look “firmer, fitter, glowing, more dewy and youthful” to be exact. This product’s mere existence was enough to make me believe that I must make Operation Dewy Breasts a lasting routine in my daily life, but after applying this product two to three times a day for several months, the idea of continuing it for the rest of my life was too much to handle. That and my breasts were not A) defying gravity or B) as glowing as the product suggested, which is simply misleading.
Most recently, I’ve had a heated internal debate about whether I was born with eyelids not ideal for winged eyeliner and I never knew it, or if I have developed droopy eyelids due to old age. And if some professional tells me there’s nothing wrong with my eyelids, I take that person for a liar who’s just saying whatever is necessary to spare me the weight of the truth. My parents as my witnesses, my capacity to obsess is something to behold. I can remember plotting to find money to buy Vita-K treatment cream for what I perceived as spider veins at the age of thirteen, and sitting by a lake applying/applying/applying it in hopes of making it go away. As of late, my obsession with finding the Fountain of Youth and making it my bitch has become my nightmare. Unfortunately, it’s not found in cheese fries or using baby oil in place of sunscreen, which I learned from my friends in Florida and is about as effective as using tinfoil as a sun deterrent. Behaving like a responsible adult who wants to take measures to fight the harsh blow of time is just one of several major struggles in my life, including my inability to eat healthily or exercise in the absence of force.
Anyway, back to old age. Even though people who follow me on social media constantly ask if I am an intern (nice), this train is heading straight for the big 2-8. Sometimes I think hitting puberty at the ripe age of eighteen has its benefits, although my boob-less/menstruation-less sixteen-year-old self will always beg to differ.
So what’s the big deal, you ask? Given my lifestyle, I have many qualifiers as to why I should look like the guy from Tales of the Crypt by the end of the week.
Below is just the shortlist of reasons why I’m totally fucked:
1. I detest water. I don’t think I have actively finished a bottle of water in three or more years. I’m not even sure how I’m alive to be honest. Water makes me angry. Not only that but Diet Coke makes me happier than all the babies, tiny animals and rainbows in the world combined, yet it contains things like methanol which allegedly metabolizes into formaldehyde. That cannot be good for an aging woman.
2. I hate washing makeup off my face and didn’t even do so consistently till I turned 26 and got all-white bedding and I thought I could wash my pillows less if they weren’t covered in glitter and mascara. You could probably find China at the bottom of my pores after digging out all the dirt that’s been backed into them for the past decade.
3. This is old news but I prefer to get by on a diet mainly consisting of candy, French fries, cookies, pizza, and Yogurtland (yes this is its own category). So, by this I mean grease on grease on sugar on carbs and I don’t think this ever did anything good for anyone.
4. I make faces constantly that involve furrowing my brow. I know there’s Botox for this but my 6th grade teacher scarred me for life with death-by-Botulism stories that resulted in an unnecessary fear of canned sodas and food for several years, and I don’t really want to voluntarily fill my face with it if at all possible.
5. I rub the shit out of my eyes in the shower, because how do you not?
6. I spent five months in Florida in 2011, during which I laid in the sun approximately 6 hours a day, 11 days a week, hating on sunscreen, because what else do you do in Florida? Melanoma fail.
In addition, I’m a woman who likes instant gratification. With antiaging products, how in the hell are you supposed to know if your antiaging method is working until you’re actually OLD? So I spend money and make decisions now and hope that I can thank my 27-year-old self for choosing the right regimen 27 years before I’ll know whether it worked? I also resent how complicated and involved of a process this is. I don’t want to give a shit about things like free radicals. It sounds more like a band than some rogue intangibles I’m supposed to fight with vitamin c.
The news just keeps getting worse; I thought that because I spend most of my time in an office staring at a computer screen that SPF was not a necessary morning component. I’ve recently come to learn that harmful rays can penetrate windows and ALSO computer screens and lights contain rays that can ruin your face. On top of that, apparently daily sunscreen needs to go all down the boobs too, and it needs to be reapplied every two hours. I’m sorry, I just didn’t envision a time in my life when it would be necessary to slather on SPF in a dark office every two hours because my computer has become a threat to the longevity of my face. I’ve also been told not to sleep on my side recently, which about ruined my day. Excuse me but I thought sleeping on your back was for old men and pregnant women. The woman who does my eyebrows demanded that I put castor oil on my brows before bed because apparently we have a finite amount of eyebrow hairs in our lifespans (who knew?), and I don’t go easy on it. Pair that with several types of lotion and a generous dab of retinol and I roll into bed looking like I’ve just dipped my face in a vat of bacon grease on the nightly.
At this point, if some professional told me that the secret to looking 21 forever was sleeping with a taco salad on my face, I’d do it proudly. Anyway, I’m currently researching sunscreen on Sephora.com right now so I gotta hit the road.