I turned 70 this year. And the wrinkles on my wrinkles tell the world what a rough last four years I’ve had.
I heard because of Botox they’re having trouble finding actors in Hollywood whose faces can do the job anymore, and I’m thinking I could start a whole new career there. I’m an open book with aging pages. It all shows. The sadness of my son crippled by MS and dying so young at 38, the death of my precious mother, and the state of my planet earth.
So I’ve decided to give my wrinkles identities. Like this deep one; that’s the day my father’s heart attacked him and he died right there in front of my 15-year-old eyes. And this one, this is the one I got from my sexy neighbor Wanda, who’d arrive with her garden bounty offerings while my husband of only four years then stared at her cleavage and practically moaned “oh zucchini, yeah I…. love……. zucchini.” I never saw him eat that phallic vegetable and I was sure he would leave me for her. (It’s been 44 years and he still never eats zucchini and thank god he still hasn’t left).
The weird thing about this face aging is that I feel 34. I walk around in tiny t -shirts and tight jeans and I think I’m gorgeous until I look in the mirror with my prescription glasses. It’s stunning it’s shocking and sometimes it’s downright depressing. Who is that?????
I’ve always been an emotional chameleon. I am 14 when I hang out with my 14-year-old friend Ben, I am 23 when I’m with my niece Aprill, and I’m 96 when I’m with my friend Stanley. So the solution to not letting my face get to my spirit is simply not scrutinizing myself in front of the magnifier with glasses designed to see small print.
But sometimes it’s hard. I see a gorgeous 20-year-old with smooth bronze skin, silky shiny hair and white white teeth. I never even looked like that at any age. It’s not as if I lost my looks. I never really had them. I had a brief encounter with being sexy; I think from about 48 to… yesterday.
I think this whole thing would be less startling if I didn’t feel so….um… different. It seems everyone these days is looking really young. I even thought maybe I should tell people I’m 81 and then they would say wow you look …amazing!! But that’s ridiculous too. So I have redefined beautiful, I feel I have a responsibility to my younger sisters. I must show them that passion is a turn on too and that’s something you never lose. Elasticity? Yes. Enthusiasm, No!
Anyway, I have this fantasy; one day I snap on the TV and see a Beverly Hills dermatologist explaining his cutting edge revolutionary skin treatment: We guarantee, he says, within three months your face will show authentic sorrow, genuine joy and actual wisdom. I’ll grimace (because I can), look up from the Spielberg script I’m working on and think…. uh oh there goes Tinsel Town.