Oh, my gosh! You’re so funny, aging past forty. That’s so you. Are you doing something fun to celebrate? Kicking back and relaxing? I hope so, because you look a little . . . tired. Oh, you’re not tired? Well, sorry, no—it’s just, your nasolabial lines? They just seem a little . . . pronounced. But in a really handsome way!
What are nasolabial lines, you ask? Well, they’re the wrinkles that go down from your nose to the corners of your mouth. Oh, you didn’t know that was something you needed to worry about? Well, we’re glad to keep you informed. Did you know about glabellar frown lines? Those are the ones in between your eyebrows that give you that Dust Bowl vibe you’ve been rocking.
And let’s not forget about crow’s-feet, the fine wrinkles that fan out from the corners of your eyes. I know what you’re thinking: “But I like crow’s-feet.” Well, you’re just wrong. Wait! Where are you going? We still haven’t told you about forehead lines, bunny lines, marionette lines, turkey neck, or cranial ear pouches (that last thing doesn’t exist, but you should still worry about it). And don’t even get us started on your hands, hair, lips, ass shape, ass vibes, ass intentions, whether your boobs are courtly enough, or whether your elbows are really going for it.
Believe us, despite all of your accomplishments, there are about a million other things we could point out to make you feel crestfallen whenever you catch your reflection in a department-store mirror. That’s where we really dance like no one’s watching, where we #livelaughlove, and other girl-talk, faux-empowerment idioms. When you feel like shit at Marshalls, crushed by a cascade of little insecurities and self-recriminations that have appreciably degraded the fabric of your life and the experience of your time here on earth—that’s us. Let’s just say we are “here for it.”
Picture this: you’re at some kind of gala, wearing stilettos, cutting a sharp silhouette against the twinkling lights of Boca Raton, Botoxed to the fucking nines, and getting evaluated by rich older men. In a moment of irrepressible sangfroid, you decide to start doing the Carlton. Oh, sorry, I just went into the notes for our next terrible commercial shoot.
Look—it’s simple. We make you feel bad about getting older; you give us money. We make you feel like you’re a gray hair clinging to a cardigan in the lost and found at an improv theatre for daring to persist for yet another year in your own body. Then you sign up for a variety of painful treatments.
It’s your fault for being such a gnarly little time freak.
What was that? We can go fuck ourselves? Well, it’s funny that you should mention sex, because we’re pretty sure there are a number of improvements that could be made down there, too. Nothing is off the table.
You go, girl!
