Aging Bites

Warning: after a very “selfless*” blog last week all about my talented brother, let me take a moment to talk about me. Who are we kidding, it won’t be just a moment. This is going to be a virtual therapy session and long rant (minus the 125 bucks and not so subtle yawns, of course), so you may want to feel invested before you continue. The fact is, tomorrow is my birthday.** And I feel SO MOFO OLD (waaahhh).

But seriously. Why does aging suck so bad? And why does it creep up on you out of nowhere? Just last week I was ten, gangly, brace faced and sporting a mean mullet. OK, so I’m still brace faced. You see, that’s how desperate I am to return to my youth. And now suddenly I’m approaching my mid thirties and have nothing to show for it but gravity’s cruel joke.

So here’s a lil’ story that some people might find amusing (if public meltdowns are funny to you, that is). Several years ago when I hit the big 3-0 I had a mini breakdown at the mall, at the French-based face care product store Yves Rocher to be exact. After a long period of daily self-scrutiny, I discovered that the Barcelona sun had kick started my downward spiral into sprouting what people kindly refer to in Spain as lineas de expresion. Better known here in the States as “wrinkles.”

So, I took myself to the mall without a second to spare. I dashed into Yves Rocher and started grabbing every item I could find that said anti-wrinkles, leaving a trail of rejected products along the floor at my feet. In typical Spanish fashion, the women working in the store ignored me with barely disguised disdain. I was, after all, a guiri (derogatory word for foreigner). The more I was neglected, the more angry I became, until I finally approached a shopkeeper, a woman in her 50s, tubes of creams falling out of my arms and cried “Can you help me?” as if seeking treatment at the emergency room. The woman told me that her shift had just ended, and I’d have to wait for someone else. And then came “the meltdown.”

“I can’t wait for anyone else!” I screeched unbecomingly, throwing the creams into the attendant’s arms. “Which one will work? I have wrinkles and I need to stop them, now!”

The woman frowned and grabbed the products from me. Looking at the evil creams with her face scrunched up in disgust, she shook her head at me and said, “Pero, estas LOCA?” (embellished translation: But…are you FN CahRAZY?)

She then proceeded to reprimand me, told me I was clearly insane, that there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen, and asked me if I was 17 years old, while I stood there hanging my head in shame. I left the store with mere sunscreen.

Well, that was four years ago. What will happen tomorrow? Will I terrorize the streets of New York, scouring stores for La Prairie creams and holding up spas at gunpoint? Should I go to the hairdresser and ask them to “cut and feather” my sides and let the back taper to a long point? Wow, bet my friends and coworkers didn’t know I was this psycho. FYI: I am.

But it’s society, man. Have you ever seen those trashy celebrity magazines that adorn all newsstands, where they actually circle wrinkles or blemishes on famous women’s faces and have a field day? We’re not supposed to let it affect us, but who isn’t somewhat disturbed by society’s demands on women? We’re supposed to be beautiful, flawless, skinny, and have a great personality and not complain about wrinkles to boot. All the while people say silly things like “men age like fine wine” (FYI: last summer I went to my 15 year high school reunion and discovered a secret: they don’t).

*Is it really selfless if I enjoy the praise I got for being such a nice big sister?
**Thinly veiled desperate call for happy birthday wishes.