Aging Awkwardly, But Grateful

As my 50th birthday looms, I am determined to not fret over the evidence of history etched on my face more and more each year and instead try to adjust my attitude.

I don't want my wrinkles injected with cow's collagen or my frown muscles subjected to bacterium toxin or my eyebrows lifted into perfect crescent moons via a surgeon's scalpel.

Of course, all people should be able to do what they want with their faces and their bodies without others criticizing them. So let me say here that I am not criticizing anyone.  I am simply venting, because I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that beauty will be founded eventually on the homogenized look of plastic surgeons, instead of on individuality--and something even more troubling, that because I want to opt out of these procedures, I will be discounted because of it.

And left to fly my wrinkled-woman flag alone.

At least in the past we all looked old together. We comforted each other through our common shared experience.

But now, I see myself in 30 years, one of the last few old female faces left and, consequently, compelled to explain myself to curious little children who don't understand why I am so different from others my age. Why I look 80 at 80.

Still, I can't get passed this feeling that tells me not to interfere with something that isn't broken. And when I ever begin to doubt that, our Jeep provides me reassurance.

Each time this old girl goes in for an oil change, someone invariably comes up to me, holding some grimy part of her, and tells me how wrecked it is. I then call my husband on my cell phone, and he always tells me some version of this: When you go under the hood to fix something, which probably doesn't need fixing, you're only asking for trouble.

And I know he's right, because the time I did let someone fix something, which probably didn't need fixing, somehow another thing mysteriously got broken. So now I leave well enough alone.

I'm trying to do the same with myself.  Although, three years ago, I decided to get braces.

A year or so after I'd gotten them, I teasingly asked my husband what he thought, certain he'd agree I looked like a wrinkled teenager. But instead he said he didn't like them.

It took a few days for me to finally eke out why, because he kept saying he didn't know.

It wasn't the cost, he said, or that I more or less up and did it without much discussion. It also wasn't because I looked a little ridiculous, although I think I did.

The reason he didn't like the braces, he said, was because he feared they were only the beginning, and that I would eventually do something more riskful, like injecting botulin into my face. Or worse.

I was glad he loves me enough to worry about such things--and that I was once again reminded that he doesn't need me to change my outsides.

And I'm grateful he's been that way for the entire 25 years that I've known him.

Once, when I whimpered about hating the way my face looked since I've gotten older, he said, "I don't like it when you talk that way about your face; I like your face the way it is."

And I cried then, because he told me what probably all wives want to hear.

If only it were enough.

But it isn't. I am the one who has to love my outsides just the way they are or I will never be satisfied. I will always be afraid of the next new wrinkle or gray hair--or lack thereof.

So I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be aging at all. It means I'm still alive. When I do that, I can feel my attitude getting stronger.

I also eat more healthily than I used to and I exercise three times a week, so I know I'm on the right track.

Now, if I can only quit obsessing over whether or not to buy that cosmetic contraption on that shopping channel that superficially stimulates your facial muscles with baby electrical currents and thereby firms and smoothes the skin…

QUESTION: How accepting are you of your aging process and what, if anything, could you do to improve your attitude?

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I'd Be Fine If...

A friend said I looked exuberant in a recent photograph. Exuberant. What a contrast between the me I am becoming at 49 and the me I was 10 or so years ago, when I sometimes evidently appeared so glum that even strangers, bless their hearts, would walk up to me and say, “Smile.”

Not that it did any good. Instead of being inspired to look up from the ground and acknowledge other people once in a while—people who might already feel invisible enough—I felt attacked and withdrew even more.

In my defense, my face does naturally have a hound-dog quality about it. Everything--my eyebrows, eyes and mouth--it all slopes downward. So I wasn't frowning, I told myself. And no, I did not have a pretty good anger issue brewing inside of me, anger that over time had fermented then flattened to resentment.

I would scream about my job alone in my car so I didn't scare my neighbors, and the love of my life seemed forever inclined to not get married. The world felt unfair, demanding, and infuriating. People seemed mean, thoughtless, and rude. But no, I was not frowning.

Even as I write this I am still amazed at how I believed that the reason for my state was that everybody else was so screwed up.

I remember once ranting about my job to my mother and, her eyes as wide as quarters, her suggesting, “Why don't you just be peaceful?”

Be peaceful? Be peaceful? Wasn't it obvious if I could do "peaceful" I wouldn't be standing there whining?

By the time I was 39 I was finally married to that love of my life and doing what I had always wanted, writing. But I was still walking around staring at the ground and blaming the world for the things I didn't want and the things I wanted but still didn't have. My wants seemed to multiply as soon as a want got granted.

And then I got a want I hadn't expected. Her name was Jane. You'd have thought she had it all, with her attitude. And she did. All the challenging stuff. The unhappy marriage to an alcoholic husband, insane mother, kleptomania, weight issues, low self esteem. She was also pretty, smart, generous, funny and had a great career, although one she hated.

But Jane refused to blame anyone but herself for her mental state or her circumstances. And if Jane had gotten herself into all of this then Jane—with the help of God, a counselor, 12-step meetings and whatever else it took—would get herself out of it, too.

Jane had the spirit and determination of a fighter, but she was a lover. She loved others even with their imperfections and herself enough to work hard at getting well. And that love, even in the midst of her temporary bouts of frustration with herself, absolutely radiated from her, soothing me like the warm fire I had needed and never knew.

Gradually, because of Jane's example and that of others like her—their gratitude, answerableness, acceptance of others and self-effacing humor—I am learning to change my attitude. One day five or so years ago I even noticed I wasn't looking at the ground as much. I was looking strangers in the eye and it felt good.

I haven't seen Jane in awhile, not since she got divorced, moved away and remarried, so I decided to send her an e-mail. Within a day she e-mailed me back.

She said she's divorced again, but has left that career she hated to do the kind of work she enjoys. And I could tell her humor is as strong as ever, as is her forgiveness.

And again she showed me something I needed to see: that if Jane can keep trying and stumbling and forgiving herself then I can, too.

As much as I wish I didn't, I do sometimes fall back into feeling sorry for myself. But at least I don't do it as often anymore or for as long and that's good.

It really does help when I focus on what I have instead of what I don't--something to do with filling my brain with positive thoughts so there isn't any space for the negative.

Smiling doesn't hurt either.

Question: How are you or are you not taking responsibility for your mind-set?

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Grateful for the Cobwebs

Doing something you don't want to do can sometimes be a good thing--even if you are pushed into doing it. It can help you grow beyond your comfort level and, if you're fortunate, it can put more in perspective than you might have imagined.

Take, for example, entertaining friends at home. For most people, it probably isn't an issue, but it is for me. As soon as you step into the foyer of my townhouse, I worry you'll notice the woodwork surrounding the front and garage doors has been dog chewed up to the doorknobs. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet. And if you look across the foyer into the living room, you'll see the parquet floor is as scratched and stained as a butcher block. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.

Then, please don't look up at the two-story ceiling, because the cobwebs are probably two decades old. And yes, I did at least try to do something about that. I repeatedly slung a wet washcloth up there to knock them down. That smeared them all over the place. Have I done anything about that? No. Not yet.

I tell myself the reason these things are unchanged is because my husband and I eventually plan to move. But I know it's also because I'm frugal and a procrastinator--which is why the fabric on the ceiling of our 13-year-old Jeep hangs nearer and nearer to our heads.

In my dreams, our Someday House will already have perfect door surrounds, ceilings, and floors. Our Someday Car will be perfect, too. But as for my dreams of our Someday House, I know that's all it is, a dream. Because the house my husband and I will ultimately choose will probably be a fixer upper, considering he's as frugal as me.

Despite the blemished townhouse, I did invite three girlfriends over recently. Well, sort of. My initial idea was for one girlfriend to come over for frozen organic pizza. She suggested I cook pasta instead. She even gave me the recipe and asked if I wanted to invite so and so, too. "Sure," I heard myself say.

Then, two weeks before the dinner--or was it one week--she sent me an email explaining she'd also invited another friend. Could I send her directions? "Sure," I emailed back.

The problem was, I'm not and never have been comfortable cooking things from scratch--thus the initial frozen organic pizza concept. The last time I cooked for friends was probably four or more years ago, and that was just a breakfast. This time, I knew I could order take out, even cater the darn thing, but for some reason I eventually came around to the decision that I wanted to cook.

Maybe cooking is like putting on makeup. I enjoy doing it sometimes, for certain occasions. It's the creative part of me trying to be expressed by doing something special. And what could be more special to give someone than a delicious home-cooked meal?

The emphasis, of course, is on delicious. I have a friend named Alice who loves to cook, and everything she makes is delicious, so going to her house is always fun. And herein lies another problem. A lot of what I cook is not so great or, at best, bland. I remember the time I made Gazpacho. Cold soup. How difficult could that be? The dish was so oily it made me nauseous.

Nevertheless, in the middle of my recent dinner party I found myself having a good time. Even my linguini and broccoli tossed in garlic and oil was good--that is, after we all added grated cheese and more salt and pepper. And then, one of my girlfriends mentioned that a homeless family--friends of hers, a couple who had recently lost their jobs and their house, and had a teenage son--was now living with her family in her home.

Whether or not there were cobwebs on my ceiling didn't seem to matter as much anymore. At least I had a ceiling for the cobwebs to cling to.

QUESTION: What event or events in your life surprised you with a shift in your perspective?

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