Chronicles of one girl's journey to London - from conception to eventual migration.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010


I have been waiting for this dreaded moment since the day I found my first white hair at 22. Three years later, one week away from 25, it has arrived: I have seen my first set of fine lines on my face. It is taking all my common sense and willpower not to sink to my knees, white-knuckled fists raised to the sky, shaking in poorly supressed anger and desperation while I bellow Why, God, whhhyyy?!

It is official: I am old.

I will fight it, as generations have before me, with creams and serums and perhaps even the odd injection here and there. I will buy into miracle products and fall for gimmicky ads when I see Cindy Crawford and her lovely face on TV. 

I wish I was the kind of person who could happily see these lines and say, These lines tell the story of my extraordinary life! Behold, I am wise woman secure in her humanity!

Er, no . . . I'm sorry but I am just not that cool. I'll be in line behind you at the Boots (or Shopper's Drug Mart if I'm in Toronto) with the various age-fighters on the market hoping for that miracle. My youth is not leaving me without a good brawl!

No comments:

Post a Comment