Oh crap, it's crepe

During the pandemic and perhaps for a while before, the focus of my mean-girl vanity has centered on the withered skin of my arms and legs. I have suddenly turned into a crepery—producing thin, papery, wrinkled, sagging dermage. The creepy sight of my crepe has made me consider actual exercise—not yoga or walking, but something hard like weight lifting. The thought that I might force myself to undertake a painstaking and possibly painful regimen has given me a sense of foreboding. 

The other day, I had a revelation. I don’t have to do anything about the crepe. I can just live with it. It’s not a health hazard. It’s just crepe. Instead of fixing it, I can just get used to it. What a relief!


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