Tonight’s drink: Little Black Dress Merlot
I’m in Ripon this weekend for my grandmother’s 90th birthday party. I’m discovering that you don’t realize how old 90 is until you’ve seen someone get there over two decades.
When I worked at the newspaper, I had a column called “Friends and Neighbors” where I wrote about local people of interest. It was pretty commonplace for me to get letters about people turning 100, or 102, or 104, etc. I referred to them, appropriately, as the centenarians.
That was over five years ago now, and I have to believe that some, if not all, of the centenarians I met are gone. When I imagine that, I picture them as little dandelion puffs just whisking away with the breeze. If you don’t watch someone get old, it’s almost impossible to see them as anything but. They become their own sort of life form – a fleeting one, despite the evidence to the contrary.
My dad picked me up from the airport and I went with him to get some groceries for the party. The bag girl asked him if he needed help out, and he replied, “I’m not that old yet.” As we walked out, I thought, “Neither am I,” but something about the “yet” made me feel so mortal all of a sudden. I felt my muscles shiver in the cold air, the strength of my bones, the fluidity of my joints and movements. And then I pictured my grandmother the last time I had seen her. Frail and pale, fingers crooked from arthritis, sliding on her walker. Yet.
It really bugs me when people spout their mantras about “living for today” and “siezing the moment,” because I feel like those things are luxuries, not rights. It’s great to go around smelling the roses, but if you can’t make rent at the end of the month, you’ll be smelling a lot more than that while you’re living on the street.
So this post isn’t about that — or any other sort of advisory about how you’re supposed to appreciate this totally random, irrational existence. It’s just an observation on perspective, I suppose.
And a reminder that I need to take more calcium.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: 20-something, aging, beauty, life, random, thoughts, women, youth
Tonight’s drink: King Fish Merlot
It’s warm in San Diego, and at 8 a.m. this morning I headed to class in a pair of short shorts and a conservative tee. As a semi-professional young woman, and named editor to a small group of reporters, I repeatedly questioned my choice of attire. Even though I had shaved my legs, and the mirror told me I wasn’t too hoochie, I kept asking myself if I was crossing the image I was trying to make as a respectable, responsible leader.
“What the hell, I’m still young,” I thought as I threw my bag into the car and put the top down. “After all, I am only… 27.”
The thought struck me for two reasons. First, because I won’t be 27 for a little over a week still. And second, because that excuse doesn’t seem to work with that age anymore.
They say that 40 is the new 30, and 50 is the new 40 – so why does the 27 feel like the new 37? Perhaps because the decade of the 20’s is so segmented. 20 is just the age of frustration: no longer a teen, but not yet legal in terms of drinking. 21 through 24 are like the party ages. 25 is sort of the age where reality strikes – where you start to see that 30 is not so far away. So far, 26 and almost 27 have been the ages of recount, and recoil.
You start taking your inventory a little more closely. You no longer work out because it helps you stay toned – you work out because it keeps you from getting fat. You begin to evaluate your professional status with more critique, as well as your love life. You start to feel like you need to keep up – apartments, cars, clothes, education, outlook. Maturity isn’t an option, but a virtue. The late 20s are a sort of scramble to stay young, but be above it. Your late 20s begins the adage of feeling younger than you look.
Nothing aggravates this sensation more, for me, than watching America’s Next Top Model. Women on that show who are at the top of the age limit – I think it’s 24 or 25 – are criticized as looking “old.” The sad thing is that the girls who say this – typically 20 or so – are not entirely wrong. There is something more weathered about their look than the other girls. If they have kids, the effect seems to double.
Zack and I used to talk about “Mom eyes” in some of the women he dated who already had kids. When women have kids, something changes in their face – no matter their age. The eyes become deeper, and softer – the face more angular somehow. Even if these things aren’t factually true, you sense them in the vibes, the aura, whatever you want to call it. Purpose – an external purpose – puts it there. I don’t think that kids are the only things that have this effect. Any pursuit that beats you down some adds a strain to your demeanor, and humility to your face.
“You look younger than your age,” is something all women like to hear. Two years ago, when I was 25, I used to get that a lot. After the way the last year or so has gone, I’m not surprised I haven’t heard it as much. I’ve been alley-smacked by a lot of different experiences, and it ain’t even close to being over. They say smoking and drinking take years from your looks, but I have to argue that life’s tumult does triple the damage, and with more immediate results.
So I run, apply facial masks, pay attention to what I eat and drink lots of water. But the truth is that it really does comes down to mind over matter. You have to be right in your head before any of that other stuff can work its magic.
I try to figure out how to keep my mind youthful in the same way that I’m trying to salvage this body – I’m drawing blanks. All I can think to do is to put my heels on, enhance my still perky boobs, put some makeup on, and assume the fabulous look of carefreedom while I still can.
But, at this moment, I don’t know what I’m going to do when I can’t wear heels anymore.
