Father Time versus My Army of Eye Creams

Who shall win this epic battle of wills?

I have a growing collection of eye creams. Would you like to see it? The creams come in so many different shapes, sizes, colors, and false promises — and range in price from $8 to $dumbassgulliblebitch.

The more expensive ones are nice because they come with instructions on how to harvest your gallbladder to cover the cost. They all claim to target different concerns — but none has claimed to target my crippling anxiety and mounting fears that skinny jeans may soon resurface. Or pigtails on grown ups.

Let me know when you stumble upon one that does.

They are, however, not without other noble objectives.

One promises a youthful glow.

One promises tightness akin to the skin covering a Kardashian implant.

One promises to banish dark circles and replace them with baby-toe skin.

One promises funnier jokes.

One promises decreased flatulence.

One promises a lower interest rate on my mortgage and increased libido.

They are all overflowing with dazzling intentions. But no matter how many I try, none has yet to erase the signs of my 44 years of existence on this planet.

The one with snail snot — sorry, mucin — hasn’t diminished those stubborn fine lines I’ve acquired over the years from shooting death glares at people who dare to pass me on the right.

The one with fish scales still hasn’t banished those smokey dark circles from always saying yes to that third margarita and then performing karaoke until my buzz wears off and the stark realization sets in that karaoke and middle-agedness are not always a great combo.

The one with lab-created urine hasn’t yet added that extra volume to my hallowed peepers like its cheerful bottle promised. Though it’s hard to know exactly what it promised since its Japanese. Maybe it promised me a pet capybara or lavender-scented urine, even after consuming asparagus.

That could be nice.

The one made with a 20-year old baby foreskin that costs more than my entire collection of ironic t-shirts, promised to rejuvenate my tired-ass eyes. So far nothing. But maybe by my fourth jar, it will give me that unmistakable glow of a baby’s foreskin. One can only hope.

My husband begs me to stop ravaging what little savings we have to chase the mythical ideals of youth and beauty. My dermatologist urges me to keep coming back for more. My friends with flawless skin claim CeraVe is all they’ve ever needed. That and a turd sandwich for being genetically blessed. I’m reallllllllllly happy for them.

My sister says fuck it, get a facelift. Cheaper in the long run. She has a point — but that seems so drastic at 44. How many gallbladders does one have anyway? I’d need to find some other non-critical organs to harvest to cover the cost. I still have my trusty appendix. How much could that fetch on the Dark Web?

Perhaps at a certain point during this uphill battle against Father Time, one must lay down her arms and surrender to the inevitable. Let the creases and bags take over. Let the organ harvesting research conclude.

That day is not today. So for now, I’ll be buying out my derm’s supply of foreskin cream in search of that coveted glow.