It’s hard to look younger when you keep getting older.
They say forty is the new thirty, and thirty is the new twenty. The problem with everything being “the new”something is that it gives people (and by “People” I mean me) less chance to look young for their age. Frankly, I feel about twenty most of the time, which I guess is the new ten. However, when I attempt to run up a flight of stairs or decipher the hieroglyphic message in the spider veins on my legs, I’m reminded that I’m not twenty anymore.
Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn? You know, before those heads were too busy sneering at one of your children flailing and screaming on the floor of Whole Foods, Target, the movies… insert crowded public place here? That’s the you I want to be. Well, the me I want you to be. Oh, you know what I mean.
It all starts with heavy drinking. I’m told I need 32 oz’s of water, a cup of pomegranate juice, a shot of Mona Vie, some cayenne pepper lemonade, and 27 glasses of green tea, all before noon. After five small meals and a sensible dinner, I must row myself into the bathroom and pee for 18 minutes… straight. Then I am required to slap on anti-aging creams with neo-mono-peptides, glycolic-amino-acids, Agent Orange, and Soylent Green. Each product is guaranteed to include the strongest ingredients known to man, and assures me that I will look 25 years younger (regardless of my current age.) This will make me look 10…so I’m right on track.
When we used to say, “We’d rather stick needles in our eyes,” who knew we meant it? There is a crease in the middle of my brow screaming for Botox; it makes me appear constantly pensive and worried. Oh yeah, and also… old.
I have a friend who, after getting Botox on that very spot, encountered the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow.” This occurred when the crease and area above the brow was frozen; whenever she tried to squint, worry, or ask a question her eyebrows arched as if she was plotting some diabolical plan. Being the good friend that I am, every time I saw her “Evil Eyebrow,” I would say “Mwaaahahaa” and curl the edge of my imaginary handlebar mustache.
The fix was for her to get more Botox above her eyebrows. However, she’d then risk acquiring what I call “Frozen Forehead.” I recently had a conversation with a “Frozen Forehead.” It’s owner was telling me she was worried about her son going to a new school. However, her forehead was telling me that she was totally relaxed about it, and maybe even mildly comatose. Liar, you don’t even care about your kid, I thought. Then I kicked her in the shin and ran away. I turned back in regret, but she was expressionless. “Phew,” awkward moment avoided.
The truth is, it would be better if everything was still the old “whatever it was.” I wouldn’t have to buy purple to be wearing the new black this fall. My semi-youthful glow would seem rare and enviable, and teenagers would say if I was the babysitter, rather than call me Ma’am. I could go on for hours, but my hands are starting to cramp and I’m running late for a Bunko game. See you in the waiting room.