Whaddya mean I’m not seventeen anymore?

I have come to the painful realisation that I am not seventeen years old anymore.  It has to do with the face that stares back at me in the mirror each morning. She looks familiar, and man, does she need a facial or two.

My skin type has progressed over the years from oily to combination to mature. I never thought that I would see the day when I was sad to stop getting pimples. Once the bain of my existence, particularly when they emerged only hours before a date or party, (or those big horrid, ‘blind’ pimples that were bigger than my entire face). Now I’d give anything to just have one more because it would mean that I am still young.

My  skincare now requires ‘active ingredients’ with completely unpronounceable names like Glycosaminoglycans.  WTF?  I can’t even figure out how to say it and skincare experts want me to slap it on my face? It’s clear that the people who make this stuff need degrees – not only to concoct the potions, but to be able to pronounce them in the first place.  I bet their first Uni subject is something like “articulatingthemostcomplexwordsintheuniverse 101”.

Do I take it that the lovely, gentle botanicals I used in my younger days, the organic-petrochemical free ingredients just aren’t up to the job anymore? Has my skin crossed a line where it now requires ingredients that aren’t so lazy?

I am actually fairly alarmed by the amount of ‘acids’ in my cleanser and moisturiser.  I was never any good at chemistry at school, but aren’t acids usually corrosive? And yet here I am, putting it on my face twice a day, because I am hoping that it will melt away all the wrinkles, fine lines, pigmentation (which was supposed to fade after each pregnancy – temporary my arse), and dull and tired skin.  I’m such a chump.

There’s a moisturiser that has been renamed ‘Hydra Revitalising Intense Booster’.  This, I am lead to believe, will  plump up my skin and smooth out all the lines and wrinkles, a bit like a fully inflated lilo as opposed to one that has seen better days.  But it doesn’t work. I still look the same.  The only part of me that ever inflates is my butt, and it would hardly be polite to show that off instead of my face, would it?

I’ve considered Botox (onabotulinumtoxinA) – just a wee little bit, enough to smooth out the lines loitering in the corners of my eyes. But it just plain scares me. What if they give me too much and I have the same facial expression for the next three months until it wears off?  I’ve researched Botox and the side effects include:

  • Increased sensitivity to light,
  • Crusting and or drainage from the eyes, and
  • Loss of bladder control.

How attractive. I’d rather have the wrinkles!

Then there’s fat injections.  Apparently my lips will get thinner as I age, (more good news), so a possible remedy to this is to have fat from my butt injected into my face and lips to plump and smooth. But will the cellulite just be transferred from one part of my body to another? Hail damaged lips and eyes – not a good look.  Also, then Jason really would be able to say that I am talking out of my arse, so I’ll have to give it a miss.

That takes me to Laser therapy – photo rejuvenation, but I’ve seen Star Wars; I know what those lasers are capable of.  Luke Skywalker lost his arm for god’s sake! No thanks.

So that leaves me as a seventeen year old trapped behind the face of a forty something. Not that my husband seems to mind, he’s still oogling over my boobs. I don’t think he even knows what colour my eyes are; he hasn’t got that far north yet.

But on the other hand, I have smiled a gazillion times to get every one of those wrinkles (ok, maybe all those years of slathering myself in Reef Oil and baking in the sun didn’t help either – damn the 1980’s).  So, perhaps if I just walk around wearing  a village idiot smile, have a constant expression of great surprise on my face, grow my hair and put it into really tight pigtails, for a homemade face lift,  people will be too dazzled (or scared) to realise that I am not seventeen anymore.

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4 thoughts on “Whaddya mean I’m not seventeen anymore?

  1. Had a good chuckle remembering my days of facials, you know, before feeding the family mattered. My BF and I sought out the most corrosive treatment we could get, we were big microdermabrasion addicts. I’ve even paid big dollars for oxygenation creams. Yep, oxygen. The secret ingredient is air. I’d wave away the beautician’s nervous comments about fragile pale skin and declare I wanted it all sandblasted off. I wanted to walk out with raw flesh. And I’d be beetroot red for about three days.
    I’d love to lose the cranky lines, but no longer have the motivation to endure the torture, spend the millions or lie still for an hour.

  2. dterranova says:

    Love your post. My secret skin beauty treatment is to cleanse AND moisturise using … tap water. It has enough chemicals in it to put all those other proprietary potions to shame.

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