Anne Bardsley
“Make Him Notice You All Over Again,” the ad read, inviting me to a facial rejuvenation seminar! So exciting!
This sixty-year-old face would be rejuvenated. The crow’s feet around my eyes would be erased. My laugh lines would disappear. With this new treatment, my face would stay firm and wrinkle free. I could barely contain myself. My husband would surely notice that my youthful beauty had returned.
When he got home, I couldn’t control myself. I blurted out the news immediately. I really hoped he’d be equally enthusiastic about my rejuvenation.
“Have you noticed that my face isn’t as young as it used to be?”
“No, but your legs look older to me,” he replied.
“Forget my legs. I’m talking about my face.”
“Your face is fine. What’s for dinner?”
“Roast chicken, veggies, and a baked potato in about an hour,” I reported. “Now, let’s talk more about my face.”
“Anne,” he said impatiently, “What is up with your face anyway?”
I was getting nowhere.
“Well, this ad says that you’ll notice me all over again if I get the top of the line rejuvenation package.” I waved the invitation in front in of him to show him the before and after pictures. Seeing is believing!
“I don’t like the idea of plastic surgery, but maybe you’ll notice me more.”
“Notice you more? How could I notice you more? There’s only you and me in the house, and we see each other all the time. I notice you. Right now, I’m noticing that you’re not starting dinner and I’m hungry,” he grouched.
“Seriously, look at my face,” I said, determined to get his full attention.
“Okay, I’m looking at your face. Can we talk about your legs now?”
“No! No leg talk! Now focus!” I barked.
I was beginning to wish I’d never brought the subject up.
“All right, let me get my glasses and I’ll inspect your face, if that will make you happy.”
He came back with his magnifying trifocal lenses to begin his inspection. “Holy God! Look at all those hairs on your face!” he said, squinting at me.
I knew this was a bad idea. I should have asked a girlfriend.
“Which lines are you worried about?” he asked as he held my chin and turned my face from side to side.
“How many are there?” I asked.
“Do you want me to count them?”
“Lord, no! Just give me an area that you think might need some of that rejuvenation,” I told him wearily.
“Well, you have lines on your forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. You have lines at your eyes and around your mouth,” he reported.
“Those are my laugh lines,” I scolded, “They don’t count.”
“What do you mean they don’t count? Am I counting lines or not?”
“Just count the big ones,” I finally said.
“Those are the big ones! Do you want a line count on the little ones, too? Did I mention your wattle under your chin? Do they charge per wrinkle? You may need to ask for a payment plan.”
All of this information was stressing me. Hairy face, big lines, little lines, wattles. I made a mental note to break those trifocals.
“Take off those glasses and go watch sports,” I told him. He happily obliged, almost running to the TV.
During dinner, I worried about collecting the free certificate. My husband noticed me talking to myself. When I’m upset, I often have silent heart to heart conversations with myself, complete with facial expressions. I may look a tad demented, but I process all sorts of problems this way.
“Now I know where those lines come from. Your brow is all wrinkled up. What are you saying in there?” he asked.
“I was just thinking that even the top of the line rejuvenation wouldn’t work on this many lines. I just wanted you to notice me more. If I don’t get this done, who knows what I could look like next year? My face could droop right onto my chest. And then what would I look like?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
He stopped chewing and just looked at me. “Dear God, you’d have a face between your boobs! And you thought I wouldn’t notice you?”
That sent me into a fit of laughter.
“Better stop that,” he said. “You’re making more lines!”
I decided that he was noticing me and that laughter is the best rejuvenation.