This One's For the Girls
In 2006, Nora Ephron wrote a book titled I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman. I never read it, but I know what it’s about. While I love Ephron (she wrote Sleepless in Seattle among other treasures-turned-films), I just can’t bring myself to read this particular book. When she was on Oprah to promote the book, I changed the channel. Though I knew her interview would be brimming with laugh-out-loud moments, I couldn’t bear to listen to her list all the ‘wonderful’ things that are in store for me (and for all women).
Let’s face it. I am in denial about aging.
Denial manifests itself differently for different people. Some women are in the phase of denial where they really just don’t do anything to stop the vicious and unrelenting passing of time because they don’t see anything wrong. They live each day as if they are still 17, or 21, or even 25. They don’t spend a lot of time looking in mirrors. They don’t spend a lot of money on creams labeled anti-aging. They don’t spend a dime on magazines with headlines claiming the discovery of the next miracle in the quest for youthful beauty, satisfying lifelong sex, or how to dress young. They don’t buy into advertisers’ claims of eternal youth in a jar. They don’t change their diets or their lifestyles. They go about living as if time stands still. Then one day, when they least expect it, they will glance into a mirror in passing and think they see their grandmothers! Wrinkles (<---this is my own personal curse word) that were not there are suddenly everywhere! Other women hold on to their youth with painfully obvious desperation. They live their lives clawing to a past they no longer fit in to. By virtue of clothing, make-up or behavior, they embarrass themselves, and their mates or children – if any exist. They have distorted views of themselves and believe, with all of their might, that they still look hot in their adolescent attire. They think that they can stop time – circa 1983 – when they were at their most attractive, hot, happy, perky or other positive adjective. Sadly, at the end of the day all they manage to accomplish is looking pathetic and, ironically enough, quite old.
If money is no object, many women, who are squeamish of a mouse or a dentist’s drill, will not hesitate to give themselves over to a surgeon yielding knives, needles, lasers, and skin abrasions to lift, tighten, pull up, pull back or resurface themselves to a nice shiny new glow.
Ladies, sagging skin is the enemy here! We fight the good fight to keep ourselves supple and moisturized. Brittle bones, hunched backs, and dried up privates make for highly unattractive beings. Do whatever it takes to push back the unkind hands of time. And please don’t lie to yourself or me. You do care! You are guilty of looking in the mirror, while yanking back your face to see how you’d look with a little “work” done on it.
Am I really being that shallow?
Maybe. But my battle is twofold.
My fight against aging really started out as my fight against side effects. I was looking for ways of camouflaging the outcome of the many medications I was taking. When my mother started to sell Avon, her make-up bag became my drug of choice. I would pour over every book and manual she received with beauty tips and make-up application ideas. By my13th birthday, I could make myself up to look like a glamour girl. Since my parents both worked at the time, I got ready for school in the morning like a hooker does for her nightly stroll. I used all the samples Avon sent my mom to create my own collection of beauty products and tools.
I arrived at school daily with painted up smoky eyes and red-hot lipstick. In the afternoons, I would get home in time to scrub my face raw to remove any trace of the incriminating make-up before Mom and Dad got home. I imagine some of my teachers must have secretly laughed at me behind my back, but it was the only thing I could think of to try to guard myself against the ugliness that was plaguing me. Some of the girls at my school wore make-up, too. However, those with stay-at-home moms had to come to school with naked faces! I felt sorry for them. Other classmates accused me of trying to look older than I was, but in reality I just wanted to look all together different from who I was. In my 13-year-old head, I reasoned that the more make-up I piled on my face, the better I would look. Wrong!
These days I am all about the “natural” look. Achieving the “natural” look takes a lot of work and time to accomplish. Secretly I am looking for just the right combination of creams and make-up to give me that sought-after youthful look so dreadfully wasted on the young. These days, I am also all about my personal battle against aging and looking old. I will buy all the creams and lotions and potions that promise the fountain of youth in a jar. I easily fall for all the advertisers’ claims to “erase” my wrinkles or “take years off” my face. I will never go to bed in full make-up. I will sunscreen myself like I am marinating. Only 45 SPF and above for this old gal! I will avoid the sun as if it could strike me dead in a second. If something says new and improved, I am all over it like jelly on peanut butter. But deep down I know that time is ever changing.
Still, I hold out hope that some unattractive or nerdy scientists somewhere can save me from the inevitable by way of a nice, pleasantly scented face cream, spray or treatment. I am not swimming in cash and therefore, I cannot afford to subject myself to any treatments in the Botox/plastic surgery arena. And while right now I say that I would never let anyone inject my face or cut and pull it, deep down I think that with enough cash on hand, the temptation would be too much!
It doesn’t help matters that my hubby is younger, either. That just makes me want to stay young forever. When he inevitably starts to show his age, all he will get are compliments on how distinguished he looks. Isn’t that always the case? This country is hell bent on adoring our old men while admonishing our old women. When I start to lose my anti-aging battle all I will get are suggestions from friends on new things they’re doing to fight the good fight.
All the signs of aging that we want to avoid present themselves at some point in our third decade of which I am unhappily a member of today. The first thing you notice out of whack is your back. You notice it isn’t keeping up with you and you can’t get comfortable when you sleep. Your knees go next! You kneel down to look for something under your bed and hear creaking as you straighten yourself back up. You look around to make sure no one else heard that. You decide to drop a couple of pounds and, unlike yesteryear, the damn bulge really becomes a battle and you are losing! Even more insulting, when you do manage to shed that one lonely pound, you realize that your once perky boobs didn’t come back up with the show. You find yourself shopping in the hardcore-support shop for industrial strength lifting and separating!
You start to refer to foods you used to inhale, like French fries, as “not agreeing with” you.
You decide that clubbing and partying on a weekly basis is counterproductive. Suddenly, 11 p.m. is a very late night out and you should really get home because…YAWN…you have to get up in the morning. There was a time when you used to be able to go out and linger until the wee hours and still be up at work by eight. Those were the day when you would only leave when the establishment shut its doors. Then someone in your group suggested hitting a diner somewhere and happily you all agree because 4 a.m. is so early to go home! You refused to admit that the act of staying up partying aged your look, while simultaneously taking years away from your life!
One day you realize that you are no match for the grays popping out all over your head. Plucking them individually as they grow becomes all-consuming and you decide it is time to hit the bottle – the Clairol bottle, not the other. Though that is not a bad idea either.
You can’t recall ever standing in a clothing shop holding a top up to yourself and thinking: ”Is this too young looking for me? Will I look ridiculous in it?” This is when you start to worry that you look stupid shopping in that junior section and you back out of there, looking around to make sure no one you know saw you.
This is when the truth of your husband’s glancing at younger women really starts to hurt because, as you glance in the same direction you also think: “She looks hot. Of course she does, she is younger than me and she can get away with that outfit!” When did you stop getting away with it?
Harsh reality.
The realization that younger, hotter chicks hold your husband’s attention for more than a minute when there are days that you can’t hold it long enough to utter a sentence because the game is on and it is infinitely more exciting than you are, hurts! Damn it!
I say all of this as visions of my overflowing drawers, swollen with every imaginable product out there screaming promises of anti-aging magic, clutter my already overworked mind.
Let’s face it. I am in denial about aging.
Denial manifests itself differently for different people. Some women are in the phase of denial where they really just don’t do anything to stop the vicious and unrelenting passing of time because they don’t see anything wrong. They live each day as if they are still 17, or 21, or even 25. They don’t spend a lot of time looking in mirrors. They don’t spend a lot of money on creams labeled anti-aging. They don’t spend a dime on magazines with headlines claiming the discovery of the next miracle in the quest for youthful beauty, satisfying lifelong sex, or how to dress young. They don’t buy into advertisers’ claims of eternal youth in a jar. They don’t change their diets or their lifestyles. They go about living as if time stands still. Then one day, when they least expect it, they will glance into a mirror in passing and think they see their grandmothers! Wrinkles (<---this is my own personal curse word) that were not there are suddenly everywhere! Other women hold on to their youth with painfully obvious desperation. They live their lives clawing to a past they no longer fit in to. By virtue of clothing, make-up or behavior, they embarrass themselves, and their mates or children – if any exist. They have distorted views of themselves and believe, with all of their might, that they still look hot in their adolescent attire. They think that they can stop time – circa 1983 – when they were at their most attractive, hot, happy, perky or other positive adjective. Sadly, at the end of the day all they manage to accomplish is looking pathetic and, ironically enough, quite old.
If money is no object, many women, who are squeamish of a mouse or a dentist’s drill, will not hesitate to give themselves over to a surgeon yielding knives, needles, lasers, and skin abrasions to lift, tighten, pull up, pull back or resurface themselves to a nice shiny new glow.
Ladies, sagging skin is the enemy here! We fight the good fight to keep ourselves supple and moisturized. Brittle bones, hunched backs, and dried up privates make for highly unattractive beings. Do whatever it takes to push back the unkind hands of time. And please don’t lie to yourself or me. You do care! You are guilty of looking in the mirror, while yanking back your face to see how you’d look with a little “work” done on it.
Am I really being that shallow?
Maybe. But my battle is twofold.
My fight against aging really started out as my fight against side effects. I was looking for ways of camouflaging the outcome of the many medications I was taking. When my mother started to sell Avon, her make-up bag became my drug of choice. I would pour over every book and manual she received with beauty tips and make-up application ideas. By my13th birthday, I could make myself up to look like a glamour girl. Since my parents both worked at the time, I got ready for school in the morning like a hooker does for her nightly stroll. I used all the samples Avon sent my mom to create my own collection of beauty products and tools.
I arrived at school daily with painted up smoky eyes and red-hot lipstick. In the afternoons, I would get home in time to scrub my face raw to remove any trace of the incriminating make-up before Mom and Dad got home. I imagine some of my teachers must have secretly laughed at me behind my back, but it was the only thing I could think of to try to guard myself against the ugliness that was plaguing me. Some of the girls at my school wore make-up, too. However, those with stay-at-home moms had to come to school with naked faces! I felt sorry for them. Other classmates accused me of trying to look older than I was, but in reality I just wanted to look all together different from who I was. In my 13-year-old head, I reasoned that the more make-up I piled on my face, the better I would look. Wrong!
These days I am all about the “natural” look. Achieving the “natural” look takes a lot of work and time to accomplish. Secretly I am looking for just the right combination of creams and make-up to give me that sought-after youthful look so dreadfully wasted on the young. These days, I am also all about my personal battle against aging and looking old. I will buy all the creams and lotions and potions that promise the fountain of youth in a jar. I easily fall for all the advertisers’ claims to “erase” my wrinkles or “take years off” my face. I will never go to bed in full make-up. I will sunscreen myself like I am marinating. Only 45 SPF and above for this old gal! I will avoid the sun as if it could strike me dead in a second. If something says new and improved, I am all over it like jelly on peanut butter. But deep down I know that time is ever changing.
Still, I hold out hope that some unattractive or nerdy scientists somewhere can save me from the inevitable by way of a nice, pleasantly scented face cream, spray or treatment. I am not swimming in cash and therefore, I cannot afford to subject myself to any treatments in the Botox/plastic surgery arena. And while right now I say that I would never let anyone inject my face or cut and pull it, deep down I think that with enough cash on hand, the temptation would be too much!
It doesn’t help matters that my hubby is younger, either. That just makes me want to stay young forever. When he inevitably starts to show his age, all he will get are compliments on how distinguished he looks. Isn’t that always the case? This country is hell bent on adoring our old men while admonishing our old women. When I start to lose my anti-aging battle all I will get are suggestions from friends on new things they’re doing to fight the good fight.
All the signs of aging that we want to avoid present themselves at some point in our third decade of which I am unhappily a member of today. The first thing you notice out of whack is your back. You notice it isn’t keeping up with you and you can’t get comfortable when you sleep. Your knees go next! You kneel down to look for something under your bed and hear creaking as you straighten yourself back up. You look around to make sure no one else heard that. You decide to drop a couple of pounds and, unlike yesteryear, the damn bulge really becomes a battle and you are losing! Even more insulting, when you do manage to shed that one lonely pound, you realize that your once perky boobs didn’t come back up with the show. You find yourself shopping in the hardcore-support shop for industrial strength lifting and separating!
You start to refer to foods you used to inhale, like French fries, as “not agreeing with” you.
You decide that clubbing and partying on a weekly basis is counterproductive. Suddenly, 11 p.m. is a very late night out and you should really get home because…YAWN…you have to get up in the morning. There was a time when you used to be able to go out and linger until the wee hours and still be up at work by eight. Those were the day when you would only leave when the establishment shut its doors. Then someone in your group suggested hitting a diner somewhere and happily you all agree because 4 a.m. is so early to go home! You refused to admit that the act of staying up partying aged your look, while simultaneously taking years away from your life!
One day you realize that you are no match for the grays popping out all over your head. Plucking them individually as they grow becomes all-consuming and you decide it is time to hit the bottle – the Clairol bottle, not the other. Though that is not a bad idea either.
You can’t recall ever standing in a clothing shop holding a top up to yourself and thinking: ”Is this too young looking for me? Will I look ridiculous in it?” This is when you start to worry that you look stupid shopping in that junior section and you back out of there, looking around to make sure no one you know saw you.
This is when the truth of your husband’s glancing at younger women really starts to hurt because, as you glance in the same direction you also think: “She looks hot. Of course she does, she is younger than me and she can get away with that outfit!” When did you stop getting away with it?
Harsh reality.
The realization that younger, hotter chicks hold your husband’s attention for more than a minute when there are days that you can’t hold it long enough to utter a sentence because the game is on and it is infinitely more exciting than you are, hurts! Damn it!
And now, as I stand on the precipice of my fourth decade, which is still some years away, but frighteningly too close for comfort, I find myself growing more accepting of what's to come, which only displays one thing: Maturity. I am mature enough to know it's coming and to know I have to accept it all.
But I will go down fighting!
Yes, aging for us girls is no fun at all! There is so much work involved in staying young. It is so expensive, too. If we can say anything it is that we yield some power with our wallets! The anti-aging industry has become a billion dollar business. We invest so much in the art of staying young but at the end of the day we all know the truth: There is no stopping what’s to come.I say all of this as visions of my overflowing drawers, swollen with every imaginable product out there screaming promises of anti-aging magic, clutter my already overworked mind.
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