My face is getting old. I have wrinkles and spots that mark every day I ever spent in the sun, every time I furrowed my brow at a problem, every time I laughed out loud and squinted my eyes with a giggle. I heard Nora Ephron hawking her new book about women and aging on some talk show or another and realized that my worry was not unique. It's all too common of a preoccupation of women of a certain age. She's in her sixties. I cannot imagine worrying about my looks as much as I do now in twenty years. I hope that I will come to accept the changes carved into my flesh by time as some sort of graceful patina, something that makes me different but still physically beautiful in some way. A friend of mine suggested botox the other day and I was horrified. I can't imagine doing something like that. I can't imagine cutting, peeling, pasting myself to look like something I am not. It's a nice idea, of course, losing a few years here and there; but where would I stop? Where would I decide that it was enough? I never realized how much I relied on the currency of my looks until they started to fade a bit, until I started comparing myself to my younger self and the younger selves around me. I always feel ashamed to even admit that it is something that bothers me at all...since it is really so completely trivial in relation to what sort of person I am and what I do with my life. I suspect that the next decade will be one of making peace with this new physical landscape and of finding a way to define myself that brings the internal to the surface of my skin so that it can communicate who I am in ways that are still valued by those (including myself) who sometimes have trouble seeing beyond the superficial.
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Here's to the real thing.
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i'm going to get all the fat sucked out of my ass, let it ferment, and air-drop it on my ex-husband's house.
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I won't though. Because my inside feels young and I think that's part of why I do what I can to make the outside match up. *sigh* I wish it didn't matter to me but it does.
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I saw a plastic surgury woman (PSW) on the subway yesterday--she was sad and faintly terrifying, with her plumped lips, lifted brow, and god-knows-what to her eyelids, this weird shiny/stretchy effect.
That said, the sun is Evil for skin.
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She came back and gracefully walked down the steps and handed the stuff to me. She had white hair and tanned legs, radiant eyes and a happy beautiful lined face. She was wearing a red skirt with a little ruffle bout her knees and a little red and white strappy blouse to match. I'm guessing she was in her 60s. She was such a beautiful feminine thing.
Beauty is everywhere and in a multitude of forms. Change may change beauty but it needn't take it away.
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I'm proud to bear them and unwary of those who are ashamed to be themselves.
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Anyway, thanks for mentioning Nora Ephron. I'll start looking around for books etc. As it is, I think our identities are very frankly intertwined with our senses of our physical bodies. To dismiss anxieties and concerns about our physical bodies changing is naive if well-meaning, but I think it's part of life-long "growing pains." I think if most of us could remember the trials and tribulations of puberty and adolescence, it may help us in some form... though I have no clue, heh.
As has been said by another poster here, though, we've earned the right to wear our wrinkles and graying hairs. We can consider it proudly, or reluctantly. With all that said, I don't see anything inherently bad about cosmetic surgery though I don't think - now - it would ever be a credible option. Maybe in 5-10 more years, I may not feel as self-assured, but who knows?
Other factors, though, I think aging may also be impacted by what (if) relationships (general family, intimate, or platonic) we have in our lives and how we see our progression of our lives to date. That's just my thinking, though.
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Oh yes my friend. You will thank me later.
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