Sunday, September 10, 2017

Looking Good-Part Two - Rejuvenate My What ?


I think how we deal with the aesthetics  of aging depends on  a number of things,  mostly,whether you are at the younger end of the baby boomer timeline.   In my 50's a panicked me grabbed at every beauty and anti-aging invention known to man; at least the ones that wouldn't send me to the poor house like plastic surgery or imported embryo placenta.  Do  poor houses even exist these days?  I think they are now called "the streets".   I had been a young widow, already alone for half a decade then and I was convinced if I didn't stay ahead of the flab, age spots, and wrinkles, I would never attract a charming, like minded, 50 something widower to walk hand in hand into new beginnings with.   I kept my mind sharp too staying abreast of current events and culture, joined Lumosity, took College courses and picked up some foreign language CD's. Clearly  my attempts at being a desirable old broad - mind, body and soul  didn't matter to that widower pool - I noticed most of them weren't all that fussy, they were either racing into a commitment with some still fertile, nubile chunk of arm candy.  Or, there were the ones, that within three months without their spouse, hooked up with the first woman that sent them a wink on a dating sight, or engaged in a little cha-cha-cha at the singles clubs.  In my experience widowers seemed to race through the grief process much faster than widows.  They just couldn't stand to be alone. There is a marked difference in the grief process of the male and female sexes but that's a discussion for another day. 

The mirror ruled my day in my 50's. If the reflection looked good, I was good.  If it didn't, well, it was a shopping trip, a new beauty ritual, or an extra few laps around the neighborhood in my state of the art and the newest craze, THE ROCKER BOTTOM TENNIS SHOES, guaranteed to burn twice as many calories and tone your legs.   With humility I must say, I would have been the perfect walking (yes, cheesy pun intended)advertisement for their shoes with my 50 something killer legs. They  certainly looked far better than the chicken legs I pranced around on in my 20's.  Now in my 60's,  I want to send that company my bill for a right hip replacement.  Power walking on shoes that teetered from side to side seems a high price to pay for calves of steel.  Although the ego then, would have said it was totally worth the string of compliments that came from even total strangers back then.  Aging does something to the ego - like sucker punches it out of you. 

I really was moderately (ok - wildly) vain. You would not catch me going to Spin Class, or Zumba without a hint of lip color and maybe a sweep of eyeliner.  Without it I felt like a refuge who lost her lips and eyes in the war against aging. A generous amount of illuminating powder backed up the claim, girls don't sweat, they glow.   In my 50's my gym trips were  going to battle- against the bulge, but I had to look good doing it.  

 I get a little alarmed at my lackadaisical  attitude to maintaining the illusion of youth these days.    Now, I  slink in the front door at the gym,  slither along the wall and park my yoga mat in the far corner.  If they'd stay on my face during downward dog,  I'd probably wear sunglasses. Incognito me, except some smart aleck would likely recognize me from a decade ago, and say, "Hey I knew that lady before she lost her battle, and lips, in the war. What a shame." 

Sometimes it  can be depressing but I like to think one of my strong suits is the ability to pull out relatively harmless coping mechanisms and those hard earned tools I've accumulated to screw my head back into a place of right thinking.  When I am feeling bedraggled and defeated by the siren song of youth and it threatens to smash me up against the rocks, I watch the Real Housewives of Orange County.  I can't even hardly write that out loud.  I feel the earth shake and my Dad, who was a bitter enemy of television, let alone stupid, shallow television, rising up like the ghost of Christmas past to scare me into a good book. Relax Papa - Real Housewives is good medicine for my occasional regretful aging soul.  A  therapeutic marathon viewing reminds me of how ridiculous it looks to chase youth at any cost.   These ladies aren't your typical working class gals and have at their disposal all those things I was talking about earlier that I cannot afford; plastic surgery, botox, high end cosmetics and even on staff make-up artists are as common as a pedicure.   They've lifted faces, bobbed noses, traded up for bigger boobs, frozen fat,  and lasered their skin into painful looking sunburned blobs.  All that work and expense and they are constantly screaming at each other about kindergarten mentality playground slights, drunken brawls, and gossip.  I think if I had that kind of money, I'd invest it into spiritual cruises with Deepak Chopra, or a summer at Chautauqua Institute, or sessions at Omega improving my mind and expanding my soul. 

The latest attempt at maintaining youth from these middle age gals was when Kelly decided to upgrade her vagina. Yep, you heard me, it's called Vaginal Rejuvenation and this procedure was broadcast for all the world to see.  Now, I have heard after birthing children and/or as we age, the bladder can need a little face-lift of its own to help with leakage.  That sounds medically necessary.  But a vagina upgrade so you can have the vagina of a virgin? Yikes! Some things are just better left in the past.  I laughed so hard through the episode I thought my next surgery would be bladder reconstruction.  

Why do we put so much time and value into a body that's destiny is to disintegrate and turn to dust instead of investing in the eternal soul that does survive that body's demise.   

I turned the television off and vowed tomorrow I would hold my head high at the gym,  place my yoga mat right out in front, and maybe I would leave the lips and face bare.  Nah. I'm still a proud purple heart recipient just a little nicked up and wounded in my battles against the aging process, but I am not dead yet.




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