When I hit age 34, I remember thinking, “Crap. I’m older than Jesus.” That was when reality set in that I was never going to get or look any younger than I do right now. At 40, I’m living in the land of skin tags and aching backs. Singers I rocked out to are dying or look like they should be dead. I see people sometimes and think, Oh, they look about my age, but then I find out they’re 10 years younger than me. So, I’m either in complete denial or just haven’t looked in the mirror in the last decade.
My denial reminds me of a time when I was a teenager. I saw a man at the mall who had a mole on his chin with a bunch of hairs growing out of it. He wore those hairs like a trophy cup with a bunch of flowers popping out. I thought, Gosh, can’t he cut that? Or mow it?I had to turn away before I threw up.
Fast forward 25 years. I looked in the mirror last month and to my surprise, found a barbed wire growing out of a mole on the side of my neck. But unlike that man at the mall, I didn’t see a trophy, I saw Frankenstein. I wanted to throw up. As I bent over to heave, I found, on my arm, two more barbed wires and a thick black forest surrounding a rather large freckle. I am Frankenstein! When did I go from perky, bouncy, Barbie to saggy, achey Saskwatch?!
The doctor also zapped some oil glands off my face while I gazed at a Botox poster. I contemplated how easy it would be to get Botox. Everybody’s doing it, right? How can it be considered vain when it’s so easy? It’s like whitening your teeth. Soon they’ll sell Botox in at-home kits. I can’t wait. I hope it’s before I turn 50.