hello face, is that you?
Monday, September 14 
I’m always trying to figure out how much to play along with this whole “women and aging” thing.
Here’s how I understand the rules of the game: Women are supposed to look fabulous into their 40s, 50s and beyond. It’s not enough to just look good for your age. Have plastic surgery and hire a personal trainer if you must, but never TELL anyone you’ve had plastic surgery, and if you do, don’t reveal more than that “you’ve had a little work done.” Be careful though, because if people can tell you’ve had more than “a little work done,” they will make fun of you.
Understand the rules? Good. The last woman still breathing with the most flawless skin and perkiest breasts (that don’t look fake!) wins.
Sunspots began blooming on my face in my late 30s. They looked like my great-grandma’s “liver spots.” I started wearing big, floppy sunhats instead of sunbathing (yeah that’s right, party on my head), feeling like I was 75 and sensible. The pillow crease on my forehead quit smoothing out by 10 a.m. each day and is now a permanent crag. My eyelids are relaxing. Even 25 years ago this must have plagued women of a certain age, because I remember my grandma telling me if she had money for plastic surgery she’d get her eyelids fixed. (This one will be for you, Grams.)
When I walk into a bar now, men whose gaze used to rest on me don’t even pause. I am DISMISSED. (Insert image of me tantruming on the floor, pounding my fists here.) I was bemoaning this the other night amongst girlfriends, and a nearby dude overheard. “I find that hard to believe,” he chimed in. I checked out this luscious specimen with impeccable taste only to discover that he was wearing sandals with long white socks pulled up to his knees, and had gray hair with a comb-over.
Did I mention my neck? No? Good. Cause it’s FINE and I don’t want to talk about it. My favorite aunt, who is in her early 50s, Auntie P, explains these bodily betrayals to me this way: “Aging Sucks Ass.”
Have I told you about my mustache? Middle Son and Oldest Son, inspecting themselves daily for signs of manliness, actually discovered mine. Although they feigned disgust, I swear they were a tiny bit in awe of my ability to grow hair above my lip.
Middle Son: Oh my gosh. Mom!
Me: What?
Middle Son to Oldest Son: Check it out (pointing to my upper lip).
Oldest Son: No way. Turn your head, mom.
Me: What?!
Oldest Son: Yep, he’s right.
Me: WILL YOU TELL ME?
Oldest Son: That’s sick.
Me: Oh, for hell’s sake, WHAT?!!
Middle Son: You’re growing a mustache.
Oldest Son: Yep. You’ve got a full-on Mexi-stache goin’ on.
I keep the dang thing plucked, but I’m paranoid. The hairs grow overnight and then there you are: out somewhere public when you realize that Jack’s beanstalk has sprouted on your face. I’m afraid I’ll let my guard down and one day I’ll be like one of those old ladies whom you’re trying to converse with while thinking, “Dear woman. Have you truly not noticed those three-inch long guitar strings coming out of your chin?”
Note to My Sons When I’m In The Nursing Home: If I find out you haven’t been keeping my mustache plucked I will tinkle on you.
Today I turned 41. Is aging gracefully buying that crown the dentist says I need rather than sandblasting my face with a laser (guaranteed to take 10 years off my face, people!)?
Honestly? I want both.
But more than that, I want to feel great in my own skin, and our culture really doesn’t support that notion — not without a little cha-ching, anyway. And really, I’m not worried about whether or not Shawn will continue loving my aging face. (Well, maybe a little. But that’s not due to lack of reassurance on his part. My own deal.) Can I love myself without feeling like I have to play the game and fight the exhausting fight?
I know there are many more important things to spend time and money on than the pursuit of youthfulness. And since I’m not Madonna or one of the many other celebrities who’ve recently discovered the African continent, I don’t have the bank account to save the world AND look hot at the same time.
Rats.
For now it’s just me and my tweezers and sunhats (And okay. Some really spendy shit from my dermatologist that Shawn doesn’t know about to fade the liver spots) trying to figure out a comfortable truce.
"And you may ask yourself — well...how did I get here?" — David Byrne, Talking Heads
Reader Comments (8)
Can you believe that crappy 'stache hair? The other day I discovered a glowing white hair - just one - curling over the corner of my upper lip. Seriously. It was so white it GLOWED! Any more like that and I'll look like your dad! Keep those tweezers close.
But on a brighter note, you don't look anywhere near 41. I'm surprised you don't get carded in bars. :-)
A.S.A
Being ignored by guys is the worst. Hard to believe how indignant I used to get when someone would oogle me. Several years and two kids later, the heads have stopped turning.
On the other hand, I can go out looking like crap and no one cares.
Yeah, there's that, Melynda. How I do love to be lazy.
And FaveAuntie? Last week I discovered a stray blonde eyebrow. It had suspiciously silver undertones, but for now I'm calling that color "grown-up blonde." I'm fine with this just as long as those strays don't get any ideas and start heading SOUTH, if you know what I mean...
You'd turn my head anywhere, even if you weren't my favorite niece!
My beard has been "blond" for more years than I care to count.
And BTW: FaveAuntie ALWAYS gets my head swiveling!
LOVE THIS!!! And a very happy birthday to you!
I just am afraid of going gray and will hi lite my hair more often than before so this does not happen to me. I need to think about researching antiaging face potions soon but dont have the money to purchase any, I keep thinking I have 10 years ok so maybe about 8 . I have not even thought about snow down south, if nobody sees it , it does not exist right? I really loved this blog it really resonated with me being your older sister. I am not worried about wrinkles cause I think it is harder to stop them then gray hair and more expensive too. Let me know how that spendy shit works.
I miss my young hands and feet. A lot.
Have you seen Nora Ephron's most recent book??? I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman. I've been meaning to read it--I'm betting it's fantastic and funny.
Oh, I'm with you, Susan. I miss my younger hands. I keep using lotion thinking my old hands will smooth into place...