A wrinkle in time

It is Sunday morning. I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom in search of a mirror. As I look at my reflection I see someone years younger. Wow, I think, this Botox thing really works! I no longer look like I’m my friend’s grandma.

As years have passed, I have felt the pressure of looking young again. Not that this really matters to me, but everyone else seems to be catching the cosmetology fever. Everywhere I go, everyone looks the same. Foreheads smooth, cheeks full, eyes wide open, and lips that have trouble reaching to smile.

It’s kind of scary to me. In my mind, I picture a world of androids; perfectly engineered bodies that will never get old, smiling at me and calling “come with us”. I remember the movie Highlander where Christopher Lambert travels through time, never getting a wrinkle, and losing everyone he loves. Oh well. Now I’m one of them!

But that is not all. I suffer from anxiety. This is what, in fact, kept me away from the cosmetic procedures for so long. I always saw Botox like a horrible bacteria, that once injected into my skin would make its way into my bloodstream and kill me in two seconds. But here we are… the new humans of the 21st century. I tried to resist, my beautiful friends, but now I shine at all social occasions. And the photos!!! Ugh. I really look good.

So after all my internal conflicts and hypochondria-induced thoughts, I decided to give it a try. I called my cousin who is a dermatologist and told her my situation. I felt like a teen, giving into peer pressure and experimenting with a joint for the first time. Well, it’s no surprise that this whole hypochondria thing started in my teens. Obviously when I smoked pot for the first time I went to a totally different place. While everyone else was laughing about our youthful stupidity, I was there, lying on the floor, thinking my time had come and I awaited a swift death to take me to the afterlife.

Luckily, it didn’t.

So here I am. Sunday morning. And wait, what is these on my cheek? Ugh, it is an awful rash, right on the site of the injection, bringing back to life my paranoia that my life is coming to an end. I imagine what will come next: Ambulances, doctors, a face full of rashes, and, of course, inevitable death.

I quickly open my computer. Honestly, I think there should be an app that blocks hypochondriacs from opening Google and typing in anything medical. What the heck, I remember, I’m married to a doctor. I run to the kitchen and show my husband the awful red pimple on my face, hoping that his medical knowledge contradicts Google’s deathly predictions. I am unsuccessful. He treats cancer and does not belong to the botox world I had just joined.

My doctor called. She prescribed antibiotics. While I’m happy it’s not a cancerous tumor, I have to laugh at my quest for youth. These kinds of situations happen more and more. In a world where innovations happen so fast, my anxiety tries to differentiate between reality and science fiction.

Try as I might, I cannot outrun time.

About the Author:

Ilana Lipsztein

Ilana is a journalist and entrepreneur from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. She is passionate about helping people find their voices and pursue their dreams. It is never too late to start and never too early to change.