Why are you trying to run away?
Dear Jawline,
I never used to think about you. My wedding photos in 2011 (for I married later in life) show a fairly taut neck and defined jawline. You were great. I loved you. Perhaps I didn’t appreciate you as much as you would have liked, and for that I am truly sorry. But your sudden rebellion now is, frankly, uncalled for. You’re stuck with me.
Somewhere between the summer of 2011 and now, you started a downward slide. You have decided that your proper place is within my décolletage. This chest burrito has made my attempt at youthful vigor hard — impossible, even. A devil-may-care attitude is difficult to cultivate while one’s wattle floats its fish-belly-white banner of surrender.
You have given up, Jawline. I don’t know why, exactly.
Genetics? No, I don’t think so. While my father has always had a propensity for a double chin, I chalk that up to his weight issues. My mother’s chin, on the other hand, defies her age. Except for a thin line of skin down the center of her neck, all the rest is pulled as tight as a Vermonter’s asshole in winter. Her skin doesn’t stray. It wouldn’t dare.
I think about plastic surgery. But then I think about women who have developed love affairs with the scalpel. I don’t want to look like that. The tight, pinched look of skin stretched too tightly screams “I’m old” as much as any droopy skin does. It’s like wearing a mask and thinking people won’t notice that it’s not your real face. Surprise, I’m really the Joker! However, instead of looking like a cartoon villain, I have apparently opted for Mx. Potato Head. Is it really all-or-nothing, oh jawline of mine?
So, I will continue to do whatever exercises I can for you. I stretch you. Apply lotions. Creams. Mild electric shocks. Facial yoga is, in fact, a thing. If I can’t bend you to my will, I will punish you. Submit and be tighter. And then, let’s talk about the random black hairs you insist on sprouting recently. They’re multiplying and I don’t like it.
All my love,
me
