As a woman, I’m an expert at focusing on my tiniest physical flaws. I’m sure there’s some deep psychological explanation for why women do this, but I don’t know the answer and I have no time to research it—my free time is eaten up wondering if one wrist is slightly wider than the other.
Nearly every body part has come under scrutiny over the years, but the one I’ve never given a second thought to is now the feature I’m obsessed with: my skin. Or, more to the point, my impending wrinkles.
During adolescence, I had absolutely no trace of acne. In the girls’ bathroom, when all of the other teenagers were asking their friends for Clearasil, I was asking if anyone had Ponds for my dry skin. Perhaps that should have been my first clue that the aging process would be a challenge. Well, that and the fact that I even knew what Ponds was at age 14. My mother had jars all over the house for her dry skin, you see.
Yes, I’ve taken my skin for granted. That is, until the past year or so, when I’ve noticed some little lines forming at the corner of my eye—just the one eye, mind you. Heaven forbid that my emerging crows’ feet should be symmetrical. My friends have dutifully denied that these lines exist, and I know better than to ask anyone older than me for an evaluation for fear of the “shut up and talk to me in 20 years” lecture.
But what sealed the deal for me was when I was flipping through my mother-in-law’s new Avon sales catalog and came across the latest wonder eye cream. I brought up my “fine lines” concern to my husband and asked him to take a look at my eye. This is the man who, when faced with every husband’s nightmare—a wife modeling a pair of jeans and asking him if her rear end looks big—denies that said rear end even exists, insisting that she consume a piece of cake to help the poor little rear end plump up a bit.
This same man, when presented with my under-eye area, said, “Huh. Well, my mom said this cream really works wonders. Do you want me to have her order it for you?”
Not even a perfunctory attempt at denial. That settled it: never again will my bedtime routine be as simple as brushing and flossing. Night cream has come into my life for good.
I always thought I’d be in favor of aging gracefully, but apparently, I intend to put up at least a token fight. Realistically, though, I’m incredibly lazy with my “beauty” routine, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Sure, I can see taking a few minutes to apply some face cream at night, but beyond that, I’m fairly certain laziness will win out over vanity—it always has. I can’t be bothered to wear eyeliner half the time, and I have no idea whether I even own lipstick. So I doubt that I’ll wake up one day and decide that a Botox injection is a good way to spend an afternoon.
Then again, when I notice my first forehead crease, I might be willing to add another appointment to my schedule. TPW