Let's not be strangers
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Youth is Wasted on the Young and Other Clichés
After virtually every thing my cousin Timmy tells me about his life as a college freshman I respond, "Thank jeebus I'm old now." And then a few minutes go by and I pass a mirror and shriek, "What the fuck happend to my face?"
I've reached that point in life when I either have to get a huge tattoo or a bunch of Botox. Like, I look in the mirror and see this massive crevasse between my eyes and I know there's a fix for that, but then I'm like, "Is that you? Are you a Botox kind of lady?" And then maybe I'll think I'll just say to hell with all this beauty stuff and get some bigass tattoos instead (à la Margaret Cho's bit about covering herself with tattoos so people won't see an old woman, they'll see a turtle). But then I think, "Are you sure? That doesn't seem like you either."
I know tattoo ladies and I know Botox ladies. I know ladies who have tattoos and Botox and I know ladies who have neither. All are good options. And obviously, tattoos and Botox aren't some sort of talisman against feeling shitty about aging. They're just little things a lady can do to make herself feel more at home in her body. And fine, those aren't my only options (okay, or even options at all for me because I don't have that kind of petty cash), but what are the others? Getting a subscription to O Magazine? Like, a spa day or something? Conjuring inner grace? See, I just don't know.
After one of the shows of Expressing Motherhood, I was chatting with the other performers and everyone but me agreed: they felt much younger than they actually were. I am the opposite. In my mind I've entered middle age a decade ahead of schedule. Last week I learned about Emojis from a CBS sitcom. A CBS sitcom, people. That's where I'm getting my info on youth trends. Next you know I'll be watching NCIS and barking at my smart phone, bemoaning it's confusing abundance of features and wishing I could get one of those large button phones that just makes the damn calls when it's supposed to.
I have to remind myself all the time that I'm only 32, but then, invariably, my next thought is "Gah! Then this is just the beginning. It's all going to get much worse! I need something to shield me as I go forward, something like Botox... or a huge fuckin' tattoo." Ah, but despite the virtues of each of those remedies, I can't be 19 again and yikes! I don't want to be. That shit was terrible. I think if a genie had appeared to my 19-year-old self and said, "If you wish, we can end all this tortured adolescent nonsense and you'll wake up in 13 years feeling much better about every aspect of your life except you'll have a stupid crevasse on your forehead," I totally would have taken him up on it. It's a good deal.
Jeez, maybe I do just need a spa day or something. What happens on a spa day? Is there nudity? I hate nudity. That's probably out.
So this inner grace thing... is it hard to conjure? Will I have to meditate or find a guru? Gurus are the annoying-est.
Maybe I'll forego the Botox and tattoo and just get a Skrillex haircut like CBS sitcom guest star Miley Cyrus.* That'd youth shit up a bit.
No, I know. I'm shutting up. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm only 32 so I have sometime to work on my utter lack of grace. Let me try: aging is just the body's way of getting wiser.... or something? Helen Mirren. Helen Mirren. Helen Mirren.
Note: I'm not guaranteeing here that I won't show up at some point with a giant jackalope tattooed on my back or with slightly less range of motion in my face. Ruling anything out now would be premature.
* I don't watch Two and a Half Men. Rather the beginning of it records at the end of Big Bang Theory. I'm not sure if that's better or worse, but I felt the need to clarify.
at 10:07 PM