They say 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20. The problem with everything being the new something else, is that it gives me less of a shot at looking young for my age. Most of the time I feel about 20, which I guess is the new 10. When I try to run up a flight of stairs or decode the spider vein message on my legs, however, I realize I’m not.
Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn? You know, before they were too busy sneering at one of your children flailing and screaming on the floor of Publix, Target, the movies… insert crowded public place here? That’s the you I want to be. Well, the me I want you to be. You get the picture.
It all starts with heavy drinking. I’m told I need 32 oz’s of water, a cup of pomegranate juice, a shot of Mona Vie, some cayenne pepper lemonade, and 27 glasses of green tea, all before noon. After five small meals and a sensible dinner, I must row myself into the bathroom and pee for 18 minutes, straight. Then I am required to slap on anti-aging creams with neo-mono-peptides, glycolic-amino-acids, Agent Orange, and Soylent Green. Each product is guaranteed to include the strongest ingredients known to man, and assures me that I will look 25 years younger (regardless of my current age.) This will make me look 10…so I’m right on track.
When we used to say, “We’d rather stick needles in our eyes,” who knew we meant it? I haven’t taken the plunge, but there is a crease in the middle of my brow that makes me appear constantly pensive and worried. Oh yeah, and also… old.
I have a friend who, after getting Botox on that very spot, encountered the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow.” This occurred when the crease was frozen, and whenever she tried to squint, worry, or ask a question her eyebrows arched as if she was plotting some diabolical plan. Being the good friend that I am, every time I saw her “Evil Eyebrow,” I would say “Mwaaaaa” and curl the edge of my imaginary handlebar moustache.
The fix is for her to get more Botox above her eyebrows. However, she’d then risk acquiring what I call “Frozen Forehead.” I recently had a conversation with a “Frozen Forehead.” It’s owner was telling me she was worried about her son going to a new school. However, her forehead was telling me that she was totally relaxed about it, and maybe even mildly comatose. Liar, you don’t even care about your kid, I thought. Then I kicked her in the shin and ran away. I turned back in regret, but she was expressionless. “Phew,” awkward moment avoided.
The truth is, it would be better if everything was still the old “whatever it was.” I wouldn’t have to buy purple to be wearing black this fall. My semi-youthful glow would seem rare and enviable, and teenagers would ask my major, rather than call me Ma’am. I could go on for hours, but my hands are starting to cramp and I’m running late for a Bunko game. See you in the waiting room.
