"Of a Certain Age"
Nothing says it better than
A pair of duck lips.
And don't look so smug, Mr. Former-Wearer-of-Baseball-Hats-At-All-Times. Your hair plugs may have grown in a little since you proudly started showing us your fuzzy new dome, but you're still a victim and you still need to hear this:
We're not fooling anyone.
I'll say it again, because the feigned looks of innocent surprise peeking through the otherwise blank expanse of your collective Botox-brows indicates a certain degree of denial is still at work here:
We ...are...not...fooling...anyone.
In fact, not only are we not fooling anyone, but we are making ourselves foolish. Those sunburned tourists in the socks and speedos that we make fun of at the beach? They are laughing at us. The slacker kids who hang out in front of de la Guerra Plaza asking for money snicker when we walk past not because they are stoned but because they can see very well what we are trying so pathetically to hide:
Our age.
Dammit, people, we are middle-aged. What in the name of Don Draper is wrong with that? When our parents were in their forties and fifties, they accepted the fact and still had fabulous cocktail parties and even (although it grossed us out when we were teenagers and forced to think about it on those occasions when things got a little loud) fabulous sex. With each other. Wrinkles, bald spots, laugh lines, and all.
Yet here we are, reaching the same confident, sexy stage of our lives and instead embracing that - "Hey! the kids can drive themselves to the movies; let's make martinis and go skinny-dipping while they're not home!" - we're trying desperately to recreate the physical attributes of a youth we should be proud to have moved past. A s if preternaturally smooth skin, inflato-lips, and strange-looking Rogaine hair will make us look younger and more appealing... instead of the opposite.
Don't make me say it. You know where this is heading.
The bizarre appearance of faux-youth is as much a part of our cultural consciousness as the combover, yet, just as that hairy practice inexplicably persists, here in good old SB altogether too many of us continue to believe that we may be the one exception to the national joke. We believe against all reason and even People Magazine that we may be the one person on the planet on whom cheap, artificial procedures don't look ... well ... cheap and artificial.
Now, please don't get me wrong. The purpose of this intervention is not to self-righteously unload on cosmetic surgery in general. If going to a licensed, qualified professional and shelling out the big bucks it takes to address a physical flaw or fault that really, really bugs you is going to make your life happier and more fulfilling, then by all means go for it. (Mama would do this in a heartbeat, if the joint spectres of a Santa Barbara mortgage and college tuitions didn't haunt her far more than her incipient jowls.)
But please, for the love of all that is right and beautiful about being "of a certain age," quit going out and injecting yourself full of weird stuff that just makes you look weird. The next time you are invited to a Botox Party, think of Kenny Rogers. If your facialist suggests you do something about those laugh lines, remember how cute Meg Ryan used to be. If someone with a syringe says she can "fix" your lips, sum up a mental image of Janice Dickinson, and run for the foothills.
If all else fails, think of Mickey Rourke.
Well, I guess that's it. Thanks for this time together. I think we've accomplished a lot today, and Mama's got a few other things she'd like to do before the kids get home from the Airport Drive-in.
Skinny-dipping, anyone?
u r so right. and so funny! please keep them coming.
ReplyDeleteVery humorous, Mama Haiku. Your neighbor!
ReplyDeleteGreat!! I love it, thank you Mamaku. I prefer a beautifully aged face over a bizarrely youthful face any day.
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