In Which I Explain Why I Hate the Number Eleven

I’ve never had a good complexion. When I was in my teens I had bad acne. Later on it lessened, but I still enjoy the occasional break-outs. Ok, so more occasional than most, but whatever. I figured if I still have acne I won’t get many wrinkles, right?

WRONG!!!

It was inevitable. I was bound to have it. Apparently it’s genetic and its learned. To what do I refer? Why, to the cursed lines between my eyes that make an “11”. They appear magically, usually when the kids are involved. I try to keep the lines at bay, but I’m afraid the time has come to get some help.

Me: I may need to get some kind of wrinkle cream before too long.

Friend: What for?

Me: THIS!!! *points to “11”*

Friend: Have you considered Botox™?

Me: The only way I will ingest any toxin is if I am forced to attend a One Direction concert.

Friend: Uh, wow…

Me: There’s a limit.

So, since I don’t relish the thought of having a case of botulism, I decided to check out wrinkle creams. WHOLLY SHEETS!!! Some of that stuff is wildly expensive. Lancôme™ sells one for $300. Y’all have any idea how many pairs of PJs you can buy with $300?? I DO!! But vanity being what it is, I take the time to search for viable alternatives to selling my arm and leg expensive stuff. Look, I don’t mind my hair turning grey, I don’t mind the weight shifting, but I DO mind looking angry all the time for no reason.

Yeah, Oil of Olay™. I don’t aspire to have an awesome complexion, but by Jove I will look happy, even if it kills me.

Have a great day, and smile 😉