My Wrinkled Life

My white t-shirt came out of the dryer all wrinkled.

How can I wear any shirt with that many wrinkles?

Wash it again? Dry it again? Take an iron to it?

(Could I even find the iron?)

Wrinkles, they say, are a sign of how you lived your life. Every wrinkle tells a tale. Don’t erase your wrinkles or your story line will be altered.

Really?

Is my life’s prose written all over my face? Will a little Cover Girl distort the complexion of my narrative?

So I put the shirt in the dryer again using wrinkle control. After several minutes, the wrinkles had diminished significantly. The shirt was smooth and good-looking. Yes, good enough to wear.

I looked into the bathroom mirror with the eyes of a detective. I reflected fancifully on my aging face.

Yes, the years had worn those wrinkles up and down valleys and hills of my unpublished novel.

Perhaps a moisturizer would minimize the wear and tear. Perhaps a light cream would reduce the sharpest of indentations. Perhaps it did reveal my previous decades?

Was it time to engage in my self-imposed wrinkle control?

Promote less stress. Extend more love. Live with integrity. Laugh and hike. Pray with heart. Yes, this kind of wrinkle control will be good enough to wear.