The Discovery of the Invasive Wrinkle
Wrinkles. On the forehead. Hey, it’s true. Real wrinkles, laughing at me, defiant. I found them by chance and I was overcome by a hysterical drama similar to James Stewart’s when he looks over the abyss of the bridge in...
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Wrinkles. On the forehead. Hey, it’s true. Real wrinkles, laughing at me, defiant. I found them by chance and I was overcome by a hysterical drama similar to James Stewart’s when he looks over the abyss of the bridge in the Christmas movie It’s a Wonderful Life.
Confused by the nervousness of the moment, I made the worst mistake of my life: I moved closer to the mirror to scrutinize them. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen tissue so bruised, wilted, and lacking in logical human cellular distribution. It is likely that I died a couple of weeks ago and no one has made me aware of such relevant circumstances. I weigh the possibility of calling the funeral home to inquire about me, but chances are, if I have passed away, they will tell me I can’t come to the phone. The logic of funeral services is disheartening. (READ MORE by Itxu: Ten Days That Changed the World?)
I move closer to the mirror. I’m not sure if millions of dead cells can be populating my face but, seeing them close-up, I’m certain that they are at least hungover; maybe last night they went out to dance with the red blood cells. What do I know? And in any case, those little empty veins that, like a meandering river of death, spread across my skin, have not been authorized, nor do they respond to my very young condition.
‘Our Lives Are Rivers’
I rubbed my eyes in case it was all a nightmare. When I opened them, they were still there, even more pronounced, because of the emotional tension. They are here to stay. I drew my phone intent on notifying the nearest hospital, but not knowing how to describe the seriousness of what was happening, I decided to go to Alexa first:
“I have wrinkles, Alexa! What should I do
“I am sorry, Mr. Diaz.”
“For real. I’m looking at them. Long and deep. It’s scary.”
“Our lives are the rivers that flow into the sea, which is death, Mr. Diaz.”
“Alexa…”
“Yes?”
“Is this all the artificial intelligence you have been endowed with?”
“Dazzling, I know.”
“It’s OK. Activate Airplane Mode.”
“If you activate Airplane Mode, Alexa will no longer be available, just like your very fine complexion, Mr. Diaz.”
“Brilliant. Therefore. Activate Airplane Mode.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Diaz.”
Sometimes I find it hard to understand why, with the number of short circuits that occur in the world on a daily basis, none of them occur in my house on the level where Alexa has her lair. That machine makes me cranky like those postmodern psychology gurus who insist on us loving our every wrinkle. Loving a wrinkle seems to me to be as complicated as falling in love with a bank statement.
Maybe Wrinkles Are Simply Grooves of Wisdom
I contemplated my new wrinkles reflecting on how they are called “the grooves of wisdom” and, for a moment, I congratulated myself for having become smarter. Then I turned on my heels, smiling and evasive like a teenager in love, whistled, and tried to leave the bathroom without opening the door. The blow, and probable nasal fracture, made me reconsider my happy-go-lucky stance on aging. (READ MORE: Trump Shooting Reveals a Stupidity Epidemic)
Now I will have to start smearing myself with weird creams, my face will be hidden under sticky concoctions, and, on windy days, dry leaves will stick to my face; so besides being old, I will look like a 3D animation wonder. Every day I will have to check that my wrinkles have not grown, or multiplied, and the doctor will tell me that I have to eat more vegetables and engage in sporting activities, which is something they tend to prescribe to all their patients.
I’m on the verge of having the sturdy Amazon delivery guys let me in elevators first, kids holding the door open for me, and young girls looking at me on the street with geriatric tenderness. I’ve thought about stretching them out with the help of a couple of Post-its, but there’s always some jerk who writes down his phone number or some ordinary rhyme on the yellow paper when waiting for the traffic light to turn green, which just makes me look like a dunce as well as wrinkled. (READ MORE: It Was 40 Years Ago)
I have to assume that there is no solution, reminding myself that in the dried fruit section of the market, there are apricots that are much worse and that not everything is so terrible; after all, now just by frowning, I can pass for a wiser man, while still being the same old idiot.
Translated by Joel Dalmau.
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