My latest wrinkle arrived on Friday. I first noticed it a few days earlier, under a patch of dry skin, but hoped in vain that I was being duped by low-quality bathroom light.
This new wrinkle begins above the right corner of my mouth and slants, at a 45-degree angle, toward my nose. It’s a relatively new addition to my face, but it won’t be lonely. It now lies symmetrical to my left lip wrinkle, which has been there to greet me in the mirror every morning since I was 29.
On some days, I tell myself I’m fine with these pesky little creases. Laugh lines. Wrinkles of wisdom. But if that were the case, I probably wouldn’t feel compelled to track their expansion as if they were surging rivers or fault lines threatening to tear apart my face.
To remember what I looked like pre-wrinkle invasion, I’ve started taking more pictures of my countenance than most people do of their firstborns. Right side profile, left side profile, chin up, chin down. I have it covered. (While flipping through my photos on the computer a few months ago, a friend remarked, ‘Nice pictures. Have you noticed there happen to be a lot of you?’)
At 31, of course, there should be no surprise that I am aging. But I’m struck by how young I still feel.
Does my face have something to say about how little my lifestyle has changed since my late twenties? Even if it does, I don’t necessarily feel like listening. There are so many great late night conversations to have, so many new people to meet, so many new places to see.
