Am I Old Yet?*

Say you were at Trader Joe's and turned around to find a guy staring open-mouthed at you. And then he smiled. And then he tripped over his own feet. You assume that it's because you just left the salon. Everyone looks awesome then, no? (Well, everyone who leaves Suzy's salon does.) That probably made you feel pretty good. Put a little spring in your step and a sparkle in your eye.

Now say that the next day, while you’re in your car, you see a piece of hair on your face. It might take a bit of the wind out of your sails when you realize that the hair is attached. And black. And sort of thick. Just one, but there it is. A whisker. Yay.

* The correct answer is "no." :)

And This is Why You Need Sunscreen

The BlogHer '09 Expo was packed with vendors hoping to win over the hundreds of bloggers who strolled its aisles in between sessions, many of them hawking wares I wasn't really interested in (McDonald's, Tide, Mary Kay Cosmetics) and some I visited just for the freebies (Who am I to turn my nose up at a chocolate star on a stick just because it was handed out by the Bounce laundry fairy, a soft-ish man wearing a diaper and wings?)

My favorite booth turned out to belong to Eucerin, because they had the most useful demonstration and one they personalized and sent home with you. They were promoting their Everyday Protection with 30 SPF and had flown a special camera in from Germany to help drive home the point that, really, you ought to wear your sunscreen (and really, I ought to have posted this a couple of months ago!). Oh, and no smoking, either.

The following photos are 1) what I looked like at 9:00 a.m (after being awake until 4am, putting on almost no makeup and being told not to smile); 2) what I will look like at 72, given that I do wear sunscreen and no longer smoke; and 3) what I would look like at 72 if I didn't wear sunscreen and/or started smoking again.

Eh, not too bad. Next time try getting a little more sleep first.

Seriously? Not even a hairstyle change?
I do like how they got the whole bottle in this shot.

I thought they killed the Emperor at the end of Star Wars/Return of the Jedi?
Maybe this is his sister? She should look into that whole cloak thing.

So wear your sunscreen, even in the winter, even if you do live in an area more apt to be rainy. And I'm sorry if the last photo made you a little queasy.

Finally Finding Myself, at 40

I've never really liked having my photo taken, even though I was, for a very, very brief period a "model-in-training" if you will, with a couple of shows to my credit.

I've also never thought I was more than run-of-the-mill attractive. Crooked smile. One eyelid a tad lazier than the other. Chin too pointy. Ears too small. These observations aren't all a result of me spending too much time in front of the mirror--though after 40 years, most people have logged a few hours there, whether or not they care to admit it. I've actually heard all of these comments from various people over the years. One charming ex went so far as to preface anything that even approached compliment-hood with "Don't let this go to your head, but . . . "

But why were some photos fabulous and the others, ah, crap?

For instance, my friend Kat always took really good photos of me. In fact, I never looked like the Me that I saw in other photos, but rather, closer to the Me I thought I saw in the mirror. Other people, it didn't (doesn't) really matter how I felt that day, what I was wearing, if I had dropped a couple of pounds or if I had won the lottery (still waiting!), I always manage to look short and squat and very far from the Me I think I know. Well, the Me I'm trying to get to know, anyway.

It recently occurred to me that it wasn't so much how I looked, but that it was the way in which I was relating to the person behind the camera. Kat felt like a sister from the day we met. We told each other everything. There was no hiding anything, and I suppose it never occurred to me to hide from her camera.

Other cameras are held by those for whom I may have conflicting feelings: I may love them, but may also be afraid that I don't measure up. That I'm going to fall short in some area or another. That I'm not smart enough, or ambitious enough or competitive enough. And on and on and on. This is not the fault of those hands in which the camera rests. The fault is mine, because I think those things about myself and project them on to the people I am most afraid of disappointing. And so I curl in to hide, to protect myself from, well, really, from myself.

I've been in and out of therapy for a few years now working on the root cause of this lack of self-esteem, and even when not speaking with a professional, I've made a huge effort to stop the negative thinking and to stop worrying about what other people think of me. I have good days and bad days, same as everyone else. But I think my better days are more frequent, at least in terms of self confidence, and now I have photographic proof. I think.

Last week I updated my profile on facebook with a photo I had taken myself, using the Photo Booth on my Mac. I was bored with the old photo and thought this would be the perfect little project to assist in my efforts at procrastination elsewhere.

Whadda ya know? I was actually looking right at the photographer--who in this case was me. Clear, direct, unafraid, unapologetic. Maybe it seems like a shallow, navel gazing thing, but I see it as evidence that, after all this time, I'm coming to terms with being me. That I was ok with what I was going to see.

There were two other photos--Hannah likes the sepia-toned one best, but I thought I'd post both of them, mostly because the thought of THREE photos of me being out there makes me squirm. I guess I'll have to be ok with that, too. Even if my chin is too pointy and my eye sort of sleepy looking . . .

Feeling Old, Part 24,364

Our babysitter, who just graduated from high school, doesn't know the band Tears for Fears.

But

She did say that it was great that we still like to go to concerts.

And this after we sat through the concert (which was AWESOME!) thinking we were insufficiently aged.

Can I spell Karma? (No, not usually. I like to add an "h.")

I Feel Old

Hannah is the youngest kid in her art class--the others range from 12-16 or so.

This past Tuesday,* they were all talking about Michael Jackson when Judy (the teacher) asked if they wanted to listen to some of his music.

Before Judy could turn on the CD player, a 15-ish year old girl turned to Hannah and said

"Michael Jackson had lots of records. Have you ever heard of those? They had songs on one side and then you had to pick them up and turn them over to hear the rest of the songs! My mom said that records were pretty heavy, too."

This on the heels of an article about the three days it took a 13-year-old, tech-savvy teen to figure out that there were actually two sides to the cassette tape used in the ancient Sony Walkman he was test driving.

It's a lot easier for me to see why kids Hannah's age wouldn't know about the joys of the LP and the jumble-of-tangled-tape agony that was the cassette player. After all, she's only six. But, dammit, a 13-year-old was born in the same century as I. And I'm not yet old enough to refer to the Internet as "that thing you young people use" or as being nothing more than "a series of tubes."

So when the most-sought after gadgets of my middle- and high-school years are spoken of in the tones of awe and wonder usually reserved for the discovery of an ancient civilization, yes. I feel a little old. Not quite hot-tea-and-a-parka-in-July old, but maybe a bit chase-the-snot-nosed-little-bastards-off-the-lawn-with-a-cane old.

Not really.

Well, maybe.



* For some reason I haven't been able to sign in to Blogger for a few days. My excuse du jour for the recent dearth of posts.

Hannah-isms

I.
Hannah:
Daddy, can I [[whatever it was]]?

Thomas:
No.

Hannah, not even bothering to wait until Thomas had left the room:
Mommy, can I [[same whatever it was]]?

Me:
No.

Thomas:
Hannah, why did you just ask Mommy when I JUST told you No?

Hannah, without missing a beat and with a smidge of attitude:
Uh, because she's older and she owns the house?
(only true on one count)


Sadly, Thomas did not find this as amusing as I.



II.
Hannah, gazing up at me:
37, 38, 39 . . .

Me:
What are you counting?

Hannah:
The little lines around your eyes. I lost track of the little holes [the pores] in your face.

Happy Birthday To Me . . . .

I love having a family with a sense of humor. I love even more that I love having a family with a sense of humor (which may only make sense to me):




Thanks, John and Penny, for having a sense of humor and for sharing it with me. Oh, and for liking me. That's good, too :) And thanks to everyone else for the birthday wishes!

Love the Skin You're In

My favorite sister-in-law has many times remarked that she wished for skin like mine. Flattering, but embarrassing, as I’ve always taken it for granted and never given much thought, or wasted much time or money on it. For years my “regimen” was soap and water. I rarely wear makeup and when I do I generally forget to wash it off before I go to bed. But not so long ago I woke up to find that Mother Time had sambaed her way across my face, leaving tiny footprints under my eyes. And with the approach of what will be my fifth California summer, my freckles have banded together on their yearly trek across my cheekbones and nose, this time inviting along several of their heretofore-unknown relatives.

I don’t mind, very much, these subtle signs of aging, but it is disconcerting to still feel 20-ish (29, to be exact) and see an almost-40 year old in the mirror. Stranger still, The Pet Shop Boys, REM and myriad other bands from my youth are now officially antiques. And my 20-year high school reunion allegedly took place last summer.

Recently I’ve upped the amount of time and money I spend dermatologically and have had a couple of professional facials. As a result I have switched to an SPF 15 moisturizer, though at my last visit the esthetician told me that 1) I need to switch again to an SPF 30; 2) I need a moisturizer with vitamins (80$ an ounce from the spa); 3) an intensive moisturizer for my eye area might help with my "laugh" lines (100$ an ounce); 4) my freckles, though charming, are becoming more prominent; and 5) a big hat might be a good investment. I knew most of this already but it didn’t change the fact that the eyebrow burning I got from Elizabeth Arden* was probably less painful than hearing it put so bluntly.

It must appear that I’m not taking this aging thing gracefully, but I really don’t mind it so much. When I was very young I never thought I’d live to see 33 (and no, I don’t know why 33). But my 30s have been very good to me and I’ve never once wished to relive my teenage years. I have much more to show for my not-so-many-after all years than a few lines and blotches, though as I fully expect to live at least another 38 years, I’m sure I’ll revisit the blotches-and-lines issue at least once more.

So to my sister-in-law I say, “Congratulations! You have your wish.” But I must add that I’ve always loved your freckles. Now if only I may grow to have half your goodness and generosity and humor, I’ll be happy indeed.


* Not personally, but that is the name on the door.

AARP, Here I Come!

I got my first old-lady catalog today. Let’s just call it Fight the Heat. And we’re not talking about the environment, either. I almost tossed it before I remembered my age—you know, just like When Harry Met Sally:

Sally: I’m going to be 50! (I know, she said 40; I’m too close to that already)
Harry: When?
Sally: . . . Someday!

So I decided to at least look through it to see what the future holds in store for me.

The models—for dramatic purposes, we’ll say they were all over 60—were attractive but with that I-just-came-from-my-Botox-appointment sparkle. You know the look: skin pulled back tightly giving their unnaturally smooth cheeks and brow that certain shine.

I sighed as I flipped through pages and pages of 21st century muumuus, tummy-reducing/disguising pants, girdles, granny panties and "personal massagers." Wait, what?! Flip, flip back to the center where they proudly feature four pages of personal massagers and other "relationship enhancing" accessories.

They do say that 50 is the new 30, which is a good thing because when my mother was 50, it was the new 80. Whatever it is, I hope my, er, girdle comes in a plain brown box. And that I'll look as good at 40 as these women do at 60.