Aging (un)gracefully

If you’re under the age of thirty and want to know what your future looks like, here’s a snapshot. No, wait, that does date me. Here’s a screenshot. Posted without permission, because who knows if they even know how to find my blog. 

Remember how we used to text about other kinds of gummies? This week, before we could stop it, the Text Train to Oldville went barreling down the tracks. 

Nothing screams “Best Friends Forever” like a daylong debate weighing the pros and cons of generic vs name-brand fiber supplements. (PS, would have been great if you’d mentioned the adult gas that comes with 6g of fiber per day. You know who you are).

I might have tagged this as a one-off event had it not been for a second conversation with a completely different friend on a completely different day. Neither of these people cross paths, so there was virtually no chance of any poking each other with an “ask Jyl, she’s past most aging benchmarks by now.”

The second chat started with recommendations on magnifying glasses (The reading kind, not the kid Sherlock Holmes used). We were talking about how our arts & crafts abilities were becoming more difficult due to the lack of clear vision. It was fun to reminisce about the days when I could thread a needle without wheeling out the jumbo microscope or weed an iron-on without a megawatt spotlight. That conversation then hopscotched over to menopause and, without missing a beat, I went from sharing links for great eyewear to sharing links for cooling mats and Black Cohosh. 

Aging is not very bothersome to me. No, wait, that’s a lie. Some parts of aging are not bothersome. I’m quite tired of joint pain, actually, the one thing that isn’t easily fixed. The diminishing hormones? Eh, whatever. At 50, I was more than happy to have a ceremonial burn of all the tampons I’d never use. 

This summer has been hard on my aging self-esteem. Thanks for a torn abdomen (tennis hazard), I have been limited in my exercise needs. And by “limited,” I mean, today was the first day since July 1st that I was allowed to do anything gym related – and, then, only under the watchful eye of my physical therapist. He does not trust me to work back to working out slowly. He is correct in that mistrust. 

One of the results of this summer of nil was dedicating more time to analyzing the changes in my shape than I should have. I push a soft spot here, wiggle a bingo wing there, all in front of the bathroom mirror. Eventually, I signed up for the only thing I thought might make me feel more youthful…that only required me to show up.

I got Botox in my forehead wrinkle zone. Why the hell not, right? 

Oh, wait, I’ll answer that – because it’s been three weeks and I still haven’t figured out how to eyebrows again. 

This wasn’t my first foray into the land of injections. I get my lips done annually – something I started three years ago when I realized that with each year added to my age, my lips slipped further back into my face to a point of invisibility. I felt like I was frowny ALL THE TIME. The injections fixed that. Of course, now the Botox has brought it back, but only from my pupils up. 

I’ve also had a laser treatment on my double chin, which I actually do not blame on age or out-of-shapeness as, according to my baby book, I have had multiple chins since 1971. We have shared traits in my family. One is an underarm mole, the other is spare chins. It may seem silly to have it brought down a notch, but in the age of the selfie, I was unable to get my arm long enough to hide the extra baggage. We all know the camera adds ten pounds, but by God, have you ever thought about how many chins it adds? (It’s twelve dozen, thank you for asking)

I do have hopes that by next week, I will be able to scrunch my upper face again. Lesson learned…lips, yes. Forehead, no. There was one small bonus – my husband has not been able to read my expression for nearly a month now. I suppose it would have been better if I were frozen in a sort of, well, happy state – though looking at the Joker 24/7 might have been just as bad. 

I suppose that next time I’m having a crisis of self-esteem I need to go back to my old standbys and do some purse or shoe shopping. You know, the kind of extra bags that always looks great.

Links to noted items (no, I am not paid for this service):