When I was a child I was engrossed with death, not the existential what-happens-when-we-die crisis, but the very viscera of it. My uncle would spin me tales of medieval execution methods and my grandparents let my tween self consume episode after episode of CSI. Perhaps something about the extremes the body can endure before giving way, or maybe I was just a weird kid. Fortunately I have grown into a happy, healthy young woman and not a homicidal maniac, thank God for societal pressure!
Are you concerned about drooping and sagging? Do you fear the effects of time on your precious epidermis? Anxious that the, entirely natural and normal, effects of ageing will deem you a veritable outcast in society… you may as well go and live on an uninhabited island off the north coast of Scotland if you’re a woman past the age of 35, you’ve reached the end of your useful life.