The world at large is always nattering on about how beauty is only “skin deep”, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s plenty deep enough.
It takes all my effort to keep the top layer of me in reasonable shape, I don’t want to have to start worrying about how cute my bones are this late in the game.
I recently hit that certain age (recognized immediately by any woman who has passed it) that made me question my own mortality. Namely: my first wrinkle.
Young and clueless. In our late 20s and early 30s, my friends and I took a certain delight pretending we were ancient crones. We would bemoan how horrid, simply tragic, we looked and then, loyal to the sisterhood, the other gals would all exclaim “oh no dear you look FABULOUS!” and we could go happily on our way certain in that sublime stupidity of youth that NOTHING WOULD EVER CHANGE. Ha!
Then, one day, you pull the old “oh I’m just so OLD!” and your friends, rather than responding by rote with the “you look marvelous” line instead cock their heads thoughtfully (much like a dog perusing a particularly juicy bone) and then nod affirmatively “mmm hhhmmm.” This is not good.
Overnight. Seemingly overnight all those wrinkle cream advertisements that you have steadfastly ignored for years suddenly seem to speak directly to you.
Women you barely know sidle up to you at social gatherings and confide, one wrinkled old gal to another, that Botox is looking better and better. You are forced to nod along as you realize with horror she thinks you are in on this line of thinking for a REASON.
Believe me, if you didn’t have worry lines previously, a few instances of this could certainly provide some.
Now I am so busy reading every advertisement and article that promises to slash 10 years off my age this summer that I have little time for anything else.
Honestly, I fully intended to slash 10 years of my age last fall (the very minute that I reached it!) but with one thing or another, we had to repaint the bathroom and the wood burner needed replacement, I just never found the time.
I think the first obstacle to any crusade of time travel-esque beauty is to set a truly attainable goal. Personally, I am aiming to keep myself looking just youthful enough that people won’t presume that I can vividly recall where I was when Kennedy was shot.
For the record the answer is: unborn. Try not to look surprised.
Homefront. For over a decade, we have lived together in near perfect harmony, Mr. Wonderful and I. OK, discounting the occasional tantrum (mine) and exasperated sigh (his), we get along famously.
Quite possibly the only disagreement we have on a regular basis is the one based on the fact that I am an absolute mess, a total wreck really and he, inexplicably, doesn’t see it.
He is prone to making wildly erratic statements that put his entire psychological fitness into question, such as “you look fine without makeup” and “you don’t need that goop on your hair.”
The former is usually muttered when I am still applying makeup long after we should have been in the car and on the road to wherever it is that I’m making up for in the first place. The latter is when he tries to hack through the clutter of hair gels, smoothers, frizz tamers and teasers that ring our bathroom sink like an impenetrable fortress of “good hair day” possibility.
This is a man who looks fantastic with only a toothbrush and the slick of a wet comb on his hair and who, annoyingly, appears poised to get better looking with age. Some days I can hardly stand it.
Ironically, worrying about wrinkles will only cause, get this, more wrinkles. So me worry? Not on your life.
As they say, beauty’s only skin deep and I guess, in the end, I hope to take comfort in knowing I can always claim I’ve got great bones.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt wonders if whining causes wrinkles. She welcomes comments c/o firstname.lastname@example.org; P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460, or http://userweb.epohi.com/~kseabolt.)
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