WHEN YOU'RE YOUNG, YOU'RE HOT.
You don't wash your face before bed.
Your ‘sunscreen’ is SPF 4 bronzing oil.
You eat cold pizza for breakfast and drink cheap beer with dinner and stuff your face with late night brownies and guess what?
You're still hot.
And this is your lived truth for so long that you take being hot for granted and assume your hotness is infinite like the universe. You are deeply agitated by capitalism and plastic coffee pods and yet your skin is that of a blissful baby Buddha, untroubled by the mud in which your lotus flower face grows.
Until one day - a Sunday morning, probably - you notice something, well, different.
Maybe it's a crease-like shadow darkening your brow.
An errant head hair that's suspiciously pale and crinkly.
OR MAYBE YOU WALK ACROSS A NEARBY COLLEGE CAMPUS FOR A SUPERFOOD-INFUSED PEA MILK LATTE AND YOU FEEL VIOLENTLY UNSEEN BY 18 YEAR-OLD STRANGERS.
Your stomach freezes in icy awareness: You have passed "peak hotness" and are now in danger of sliding into the Hotness Irrelevance Abyss that swallowed all the Spice Girls (except Posh).
Your war against skin entropy - "skintropy" let’s call it - has begun. 
You do what any rational hot person would do: You brace yourself for the impending nuclear winter of your 40's, try not to smile or laugh or emote more evil lines into existence, and stockpile all the high-tech wrinkle-blasting ammo you can get your hands on. You panic text an even hotter friend for their dermatologist.
Because if you just give up and give in while the others fight, you'll be the only one looking 70 at age 70 when all your 70-year-old friends are giving "70 is the new 50" vibes, which will make you secretly loathe them and their slightly less crepe-y necks.
Then you'll be old, hideous and friendless and after that you'll die alone with zero selfie afterlife on social media.
NoooOOO! You quickly make a new life goal, screw the plastic coffee pods:
Be a hot, sexy old person who dies surrounded by lots of other hot, sexy old people with incredible selfie afterlives.
But soon, like all future hot, sexy octogenarians, you discover that the fight against aging is exhausting and expensive. You grasp at weird straws like bird-poo and beer facials, cryogenic chambers and kimchi smoothies, finally crying out in desperation, "How much longer must we cling to the Collagen Cliffs by our ridiculously high-maintenance clean girl manicures?!"
Somewhere in the distance a celebrity plastic surgeon unleashes a maniacal peal of laughter. You shudder and apply more self-tanner.
Just when you're about to throw your 401k toward a full-face transplant, or worse, give up on your face's future completely, you are struck out of nowhere with a bolt of hard-earned wisdom:
EVEN IF I CAN'T BE HOT FOREVER,
I WILL ALWAYS BE BEAUTIFUL.
And that, my beautiful friends, is totally 100% hot.
xo
