Middle age

I have frownlines. Wrinkles. Permanent lines embedded in my forehead for all the world to see. This does not an impressed woman make.

Ok so this may not seem like a big problem for some, except when you take into account that I'm only 22. 22 and middle-aged it would appear.

This new discovery has been confounded by the fact that my concealer now fails to cover the sleep-deprived, late night drinking black rings under my eyes that would pass for two very impressive black eyes. Racoons would be jealous of this natural ringed look. Chavs would welcome me into their estates as one of the family. What these developments have taught me is that I am definitely prematurely aging. Gone are the days of the tellers at Sainsbury's asking me for ID when trying to buy booze.

I have now noticed a pattern. The new found need for afternoon naps (not so popular in the work place), the creaking bones, the early bed times, and falling asleep on public transport (in no way related to the quantity of alcohol consumed beforehand). So basically I'm falling apart and battling to put myself back together. Something needed to be done about this.

So this weekend I went searching for industrial strength concealer. The kind of stuff I'm going to need a trowel to plaster on, and a pick axe to chip off. I fear this is all I can do to cover up the mistakes of my mis-spent youth (that I enjoyed every frikkin' minute of). Alas, after much searching online and in store it would appear that these products don't seem to be made for translucent Irish skin (the curse of the ginge I tell ya). Another plan will have to be made.

I am attempting to institute new dead pan facial impressions to ensure that no further wrinkles gather on any other part of my face. I must look like the crypt keeper - a non-smiling, non-frowning crazy person who has aged before her time. Not the best look when still relatively new to a country and looking to make friends. Sigh - sacrifices will have to be made.

Now I must admit I haven't been handed life's golden attributes. I'm not the skinny, busty blonde girl that the guys fight over. I'm that average-sized, translucent ginger with freckles. Imagine a gecko. With a ginger wig. So why do I need wrinkles as well?

Welcome to the quarter life crisis...

So how have I successfully brought myself to the point where I can laugh at the trivality of the situation and as such broadcast it to all the world for the laughter to multiply? Tequila.

You see I took myself out to Clapham for a couple of drinks with friends last night and after a few pints, much laughter and the opportunity to sport a top hat (don't ask) - I headed to the bar to buy my round, when some lovely guys (not at all bad looking) bought me tequila. Tequila makes everything seem better. Usually because it erases all memory of bad times.

Oh, and then the bar man, not believing my age, asked to see my ID.

Bliss.

All is restored.