Aging Schmaging

Thank you, NY Times

A doctor I go to for the most basic of facials tells me I am looking old.  He says age is quickly catching up on me and with a quick botox fix on my forehead, fillers under my eyes and a collagen shot on my upper lip,  I should look better.  I will try not to begrudge him.  He has a trained eye to spot imperfections and to point them out.  It is his job after all.  He also tells me that beauty is now down to a calculated science.  That the distance between your eyes to your nose and something about the size of one's mouth (it is easy to lose your comprehension skills after being told you look ancient) can now determine the  perfect face. Calculated beauty,  I guess. I personally think it's a whole crock of  crap but I don't have the heart to tell him.  Ooh wait... if he reads this,  I just did.  Whooops. 

He doesn't need to tell me I am growing old.  I already know it.  Every couple of weeks,  grey hairs pop in to say hello  reminding me that they need to be hidden again in a camouflage of brown.  Those granny panties I used to laugh about are slowly looking like the perfect fallback plan to tuck in that stubborn flab that no workout on the treadmill or barre class can seem to fix. It is hard not to notice when the make-up artist I've been going to for over a decade seems to be dabbing way more concealer under my eyes than I remember him ever using.   While I used to do everything possible to tame my full head of wavy hair, I just brought home a pack of rollers.  My hair is suddenly limp and lacks bounce.  A sure sign it is growing old along with me too.  

I want to tell  the doctor that,  as crazy as it sounds,  the sight of those wrinkles is a sign of personal victory.  That, though it's such a pain in the ass they've arrived when I'm not even forty, I secretly rejoice at the sight of grey hair.  When you secretly suspect at 26 you aren't going to live past 30,  seeing a face slowly losing signs of youth isn't a bad thing altogether. They say each wrinkle is a battle scar for every trial we've faced. The lines on our face are stripes earned for the sacrifices we've made. Amen to that and that.   Yes, the sudden sprouting of cellulite on your thighs is annoying and so are those new fine lines at the corner of my eyes.  But at the end of the day  - some of which involves being stuck  under  the sun with absolutely no sunblock because the boys decided on an impromptu football game at the park  - reverse aging and a flawless complexion just isn't top of my list.  I can go on and on about beauty being more than skin deep but we've all heard that before.  Not to say either that I'm not getting suckered to keep applying that eye contour balm at night or that  Bobbi Brown's peach corrector isn't  a godsend.  

Age is catching up on me.  I'm leaving youth behind.  But I can totally live with that.  


With that, I'm off in a few hours.  Balm, sunblock, moisturizer, night cream.  Check.