line dance

March 2, 2019

The billion lines that form around my brother’s eyes when he’s telling a joke or a story, are tiny, glorious markers of the joy the whole experience brings him. The personal joy, the shared joy. The scribbles on my mother’s face –– she too laughs with her whole being –– are the mountains she climbs, the waves she rides, the joy she feels. When a girlfriend laments her scars, sunspots and crow’s feet, we tell her that it’s those imperfections, kinks that makes her unique. We love to see celebrities embracing their age, women beautiful by virtue of their lines, and not despite them. That’s the thing about wrinkles, on someone else’s face they’re endearing, quirky –– life’s map lines. On our own, they’re pesky reminders of vice, stress and decay. I can’t say I’m wild about all the new lines on my face. Life is hard, life is beautiful, and who’s to know which line is which. But they are mine to own. Each and every one. In the meantime, I’m buying myself an expensive eye cream, because what the hell.

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