I do not look like I once did. Dennis looks like he always has. He hasn't packed on the pounds. He doesn't cover any grey. He says not to worry about it, that I look fine. Then he asks if I’ve seen his glasses anywhere.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror recently, as I was nearing the end of a bottle of face cream and reevaluating the need for a replacement. Did I really need to spend twenty bucks on Regenerist? “Nah,” I thought, “I'm aging pretty well.”
Just when you have a thought like that, the universe jumps up and bites you in the ass, or in my case, the eyelid. No sooner than that thought crossed my mind, it happened. I picked up The Glass of Cruelty - the mirror that 5x on the side I had been using, and 10,000x on the side I flipped over while wiping it down. You know the mirror, the one that makes my skin look like a pancake that is ready to flip, or a close up photo of the moon's crust, ashen, dry, and covered with craters. I had been blissfully using the kinder, more gentle side of the mirror. Ignorance being bliss was no longer an option, because I saw It.
I shudder at the memory.
Suddenly, where there had only been eyelashes, It as there.
It was vile. I could not wipe It away.
Suddenly, there was a pink fleshy mole in my lash line. It was awful.
It appeared from nowhere, like a giant pink finger pointing at my reflection. With an evil laugh It said, "Oh, really? You think you are aging well? Then you haven't met ME!" I think I was smote, as It was a harsh blow that came down upon me.
I asked my husband if he had seen It, and he said no, It was barely noticeable, and really no big deal. He looked at it closely, in the light, and suggested that if it bothered me, I should talk with the doctor. The Doctor? Which doctor? Dermatologist? Plastic surgeon? Psychiatrist?
Within a week, a second little mole appeared near It. I call them The Pointer Sisters, as when I look in the mirror they rudely point at me, mocking me and chanting, “Now you are now a woman of a certain age! Soon our cousins will appear on your neck! You cannot stop us! Our troops are gathering in your basal cells and soon to your epidermis we shall arise!”
Over the coming days, I light candles and set up an altar to Saint Stratum Corneum on my vanity. I offer Her the finest sable brushes, and consecrate to Her unguents and pots of colorful creams. I determine that as I invoke Her, if I apply brown eyeliner exactly right into the lash line, and I dab it carefully onto The Pointer Sisters, I can camouflage them as a clump of mascara.
This is tricky to do, and not without risks. First, I must wash my hands in The Holy Water of Sink. Then I must use my left thumb at the outer corner of my eye to pull the skin above my cheekbone toward my ear. While using my index finger to haul up and hold that flap of eyelid that was once under covered my brow bone, but now droops over my eye in one flabby fold.
I pray as I steady my right elbow on the vanity and firmly grasp the thin eyeliner brush in my shaky hand. I lean in close to The Glass of Cruelty and the ritual dabbing begins. If my prayers have been heard, and the Saints are pleased, my hand is guided by forces from the Heavens, and I do not poke myself in the eye. “Holy Mother of Mascara”, I mutter, “Don’t fail me now.”
Thus each morning begins. When I light my candles now, I say a new novena, one for my mid-forties. It is my husband’s birthday this week, and when he blows out his candles, he will not be the only one making wishes.
I wish I could be more like my husband.
I wish I could age without being judged, or imposing judgments upon myself.
I wish I could see my crow’s feet as pretty birds singing the harmony lines in the song of my life.
I wish I could be like the woman with the bundle of sticks in Dar Williams’ song - that I could beat back the voices in my head, and hear only the ones that say, “Aren’t you aging well…” Her song is beautiful. You can listen to it here. I have to go now and touch up my makeup.
