Why Try to Live to 100 When I Can't Afford Being 32?

07.07.2026, 18:37 allure.com

When I’m not dodging push notifications about ongoing geopolitical strife or other miscellaneous calamities that have become par for the course in 2026, I’m reviewing the pitches that crowd my inbox as a beauty writer. A topic that was once a perplexing, unexpected visitor is now a too-comfortable resident: longevity.

“Mitochondrial health is all the rage on TikTok,” declares one pitch, then recommends red light therapy to coax me aboard. Another swears that a $258 “platelet-derived serum” is the secret to “true skin longevity.”

One asked the question that’s certainly on everyone’s mind: “What are regenerative aesthetics?” (I actually read this one; per this source, it’s as “simple” as Sculptra, PRF, and microneedling to stimulate collagen.) When an influencer posts a cutting-edge treatment involving isolated fragments of DNA from salmon sperm to slather over their face, I’ve likely already received a full write-up courtesy of the brand’s PR agency.

In a conversation with Forbes, Milvia Di Gioia, the head of regenerative aesthetics at the Reborne clinic in London, describes longevity in beauty and wellness as “the optimization of biological function to preserve vitality, reinforce resilience, and reduce the impact of inherited or acquired vulnerabilities.” Longevity cosmeceuticals address things like the molecular hallmarks of aging, enhancing skin or physical health at a cellular level. It’s the final (for now) frontier of “anti-aging,” and the beauty and wellness industries are hedging all of their bets on it—a pursuit of suspending one’s appearance and biology in amber.

I’m not sure I want to be frozen in time. Not now. As one of the estimated 72.9 million Americans who attempt to make a living as a full-time freelancer, I’m not sure I can swing it. After all, what will living to 100 look like if I can barely afford to be 32?

I feel like I’m reporting live from a bubble of absurdity as someone gifted products to test for a living, threading the needle between beauty and the glaring pressures of living that have left more than half of Americans concerned about their finances. Courtesy of global conflict-induced disruptions affecting myriad supply chains, grocery and gas prices surged. (Out of curiosity, my fellow citizens, are we splurging on orange juice or a 30-day supply of $125 longevity supplements?) Recent research has found that an individual would need to make at least $81,000 annually to “live comfortably” in the most affordable states in the U.S. (half of them require $100,000 or more), but the median annual wage across the country is about $62,000. That’s just $12,000 more than the cost of an annual, all-access membership to a longevity clinic in El Segundo, California—a real bargain for a health center that boasts reiki, acupuncture, and a 6,500-square-foot pickleball facility. While the elite pick up their paddles after a vampiric rest in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, 87% of Americans (out of 5,000 surveyed in December 2025) believe the country is in a crisis because of its unaffordability.

This figure should cast a chill through the hallowed conference rooms where cosmetic and wellness juggernauts scrutinize, dissect, and decide “what’s next in beauty.” Instead, we’re witnessing a marketing boom around these prohibitively costly products and services. I find myself screaming the same thing over and over into the void: The beauty industry needs a wake-up call.

I'm not even considering splurging on the most potent fill-in-the-blank product. I’m thinking about how much I’m going to owe in taxes now that they aren’t automatically taken out of my paychecks. I'm also thinking, “Why did my rent increase $100 when there’s an asbestos warning on my street?” or “If I fall onto the subway stairs, is my health insurance up to snuff to cover the damages?”

Let me get one other thing out of the way, though: While work brought me to one of the most expensive cities in the world, New York, I have chosen to stay here. My privilege expands even more when I consider my family, who, if push truly comes to shove, would welcome me home, and I’d be just like the one-third of young Americans who live with their parents due to prohibitive living costs. Nevertheless, tabulations about how much I’m earning and how much I have set aside for retirement run through my head nightly as I attempt to fall asleep. That’s when the anxiety reaches a fever pitch. That’s when visions of billionaires shilling the idea of eternal life courtesy of Silicon Valley or some opaque medical aesthetics lab—always with a stupid serif-font logo—make me want to toss my eye mask and take to the streets à la Les Misérables. Who, beyond this class of the exorbitantly wealthy, can afford longevity when Americans are so concerned about affording retirement, even without a few years or decades tacked on to their lives?

Longevity in beauty and wellness is marketed as being for everyone, as an inevitable future—one where the Grim Reaper inspects mitochondrial integrity before swinging the scythe. As faith in the American Dream wanes and citizens struggle to afford everyday necessities, marketing fails to identify who this future is for.

I say, “Who the fuck wants to live forever?” I care about making it to the end of the day, when I can return to my vanity for a small moment of self-care—10 minutes when I am untethered from the reality of how shitty things are, and I feel in control. Following that respite, I return to my inbox and hope to see a new subject line. One that has a modicum of self-awareness. One that acknowledges this: To even consider longevity is a luxury. I don’t care about living to see the next turn of the century with grade-A cellular health when I’m afraid of affording tomorrow.

Read more about the current state of wellness:

I Spend a Day at a $50K-Per-Year Longevity Clinic

Inside the Red Light War

Extreme Thinness Is the Opposite of “Longevity”