I lay in bed, a strip of sun across my cheek that managed to sneak in from a partially closed curtain. I peek out at the world between knotty hair and eyes that seem to have an opinion of their own about when they should open. I pull back the covers, attempt to throw my crooked, beaten bones over the side of the bed, stand up, wait for my vertebral column to be reacquainted with earths unfair gravity, assess my equilibrium, and work may way into the bathroom with the grace of someone with Polio trying to walk on a tightrope for the first time. I stagger into the bathroom and I look in the mirror. Out of my mouth comes a scream like I'm trying to more than pass the initiation for becoming the head clanswoman of the Swahili Tribe.
My eyes are slits, my face is...something...not good. It looks off-centered, or maybe that's due to only one eye opening. My hair looks like there should be something feral and contagious living in it. I shake my head and then whatever it was, falls out and runs across the room. Hello Monday.
I make a promise to myself.... "I will never, ever, ever, EVER, go out and party and drink that much liquor and come crawling home at 4 a.m. ever, EVER again. And then I realized something even scarier than my reflection. I didn't go out last night at all. Nor did I drink. This is sober Dawn. Sober Dawn who went to bed at 10 o'clock. With Chamomile tea, and a book.
I quickly shower, hoping to scrub my face off entirely with the best exfoliator known to mankind. Driveway gravel. Spring Scented. Get out of the shower, throw on a towel, and artfully dodge every mirror / remotely reflective surface and or piece of aluminum foil in my house in fear of encountering that woman who was angrily leering at me in the mirror earlier that morning.
I was getting ready to make my way into NYC. A place where as we all know, kids and grown ups alike dress way too trendy and get nose jobs and modeling contracts on their way to school. So I figured I'd better attempt to pull my shit together before I leave. Okay, let's see...... sweatpants?... or….sweatpants without the string. So many runway choices, I'm paralyzed with indecision.
I find something nice and underwhelming, throw it on, smear some makeup on, and run out the door. I spontaneously decide to stop in the diner first for a quick egg white omelet and cup of coffee so I could maybe wake up and start resembling something that wouldn't invariably be mistaken for an ER victim and be whisked away on a cot.
I sit down. I really need coffee. The kind that's so thick it can be used for setting deck posts.
I look to my left. There's a poor, little, bruised up, really, really old lady sitting there with her friend. Both are very old. I'm sure one of them knew Abraham Lincoln. Or Christ.
I planned on only staying for about a half an hour. But I ended up missing my train because I basically spend the afternoon in the diner booth, watching this very old woman, with a huge black and blue mark covering her face, drink a cup of coffee.
Now, I don't mean I watched her drink her coffee at some point during the afternoon. What I mean is, half of my afternoon was dedicated to watching this poor little old woman, physically try and negotiate her coffee cup to her lips, and the other two hours of the afternoon, was dedicated to watching her try to put it down.
Suddenly, I didn't feel old. I felt like 4 and a half, and wondered why I didn't take Play Doh with me.
The only time I hear her speak, was her explaining to the waitress that her face was so severely bruised because she fell down a flight of stairs twice in one week. I truly wanted to cry. Although that could've just been an adverse reaction to pink polyester pants with coffee stains and pieces of egg on them. But whatever it was, did make my eyes tear.
I started to think that maybe this poor woman was put before me, to remind myself that despite me looking exhausted that day, I was young enough, vivacious enough, and forthright enough to still go out into this world with a voice, and a passion, and with physical conviction, and still make a difference somehow. Which was a very cool epiphany. However in addition to that epiphany was another one: The realization that my previous scary morning face, was just a little glimpse into the more misshapen facial features to come.
I grabbed my phone and Googled "amazing plastic surgeons/ anywhere in the world" faster than you can say "hematoma."
*Deep breath*. I don't wanna get old. First off, I'm opinionated now. Picture that in 50 years. You'll open my door and all that'll be left of me is a flapping tongue and a frowning pair of eyebrows on the floor.
Secondly, I don't want to get old because they don't have diapers available in velvet thong, but mostly, because I don't deal with my own personal asymmetry very well. Don't even think about moving my perfectly opposing fireplace candles, no less my nasal labial folds. I don't care if you're as crooked as Lyle Lovett in the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just please don't let it be me.
Why does everything about us eventually move South. First our face does, and then we move down to Florida. And who's idea was it to install gravity below us. Why not midway so that everything stays where it's supposed to. I need to see a manager.
If getting old ultimately means losing your quality of life, not being able to mechanically function, needing a calendar to figure out the beginning and end date of the completion of an 8 oz. cup of coffee, falling down a flight of stairs face first is your only regular, daily activity, and I have to look like a Halloween decoration in the process, I'd rather go out James Dean style. Granted, dead in a car, but something to say for being forever remembered in your youthful, shining glory that somewhere, sadly down the line, ear hair, chin hair, melted faces and fear of moths/moth ball stench makes those around us forget we were ever privy to. And I'm certainly not stickin around just to buy those baby blue polyester stretch pants.
Seriously. Am I really supposed to want to eventually look like I thawed? Am I supposed to want my skin on my cheekbones to eventually be worn as shoulder pads? Am I supposed to want someone to eventually be able to use my crepe-like skin as party decorations for my own 60th birthday party?
No. It's highly tacky to use your own skin for your own surprise party.
And please, don't say: "...But it's natural to get old…."
Well it's natural for your breath to smell if you don't brush your teeth, but we brush our teeth, it's natural for your teeth to yellow if you drink coffee or red wine, but we love our Crest WhiteStrips, and it's also natural to lose all your teeth if someone should swing a baseball bat at them, so I'd advise the person who thought that to take my side.
And then people say: "..Yeah, but that's different...that's an accident."
Well sweetheart, so is my aging decrepit face. I never planned on that shit happening either.
Let's of course, not forget the people who feel compelled to say, "...lines and wrinkles show you have experience". Pfft. Oh please. That's what resumes and sex are for.
And the ever popular, "...Yeah I'm NEVER getting plastic surgery, I just want to get old gracefully" people.
The people I'm referring to are of course, always girls in their 20's, whose looks aren't even remotely accurate yet. They still have one foot in their mothers uterus and their faces still harbor some of their mothers magical healing placenta lingering on it. Hence, faces still as tight as a drill sergeants bed sheets.
Come talk to me after your chronic trips to tanning salons turn you into a permanent nacho and a couple of babies have suckled your boobs for 4 years, so much so that your breasts are no longer eligible for a bra, but from where they're newly located, more like eligible for sneakers.
"I just want to age gracefully."
I'm not sure I even know what "Aging Gracefully" means. There's nothing "graceful" about your eyelids eventually falling onto your corneas like a poorly pitched tent. Old people aren't blind, they just have skin hanging over their awesome vision. Nothing graceful about being able to tie 2 stretched out boobs into a sailors knot. Nothing. No matter how slow the process. Nor is "Aging Gracefully", some type of personal choice based on a whimsical declaration. Your face will do what it wants. Irrespective of a naive desire to still look ravishing by 50, you'll more than likely, look like ass shit.
The way I see it, there's nothing wrong with just wanting to keep your face where it's supposed to be - not changing it, just not needing a dustpan to pick it up off the floor.
Come on. Look at the Egyptians. The makeup, the jewelry... even dead, they're gorgeous and youthful looking. They planned and prepared for the eventuality of old age and death by dedicating their entire lives to preserving themselves and erecting tombs. Well, sorry. My back hurts. And I'm not moving 2 1/2 ton blocks unless King Tut's paying for my back surgery. And last I checked, there's no pilates or spin classes for your face. So my"planning and preparing" will consist of getting Restylane shots into my facial furrows and attending plastic surgery banquets.
Yes, true. That little old lady was adorable. We love little old people. Their presence reminds us of our impermanence here. She wouldn't be adorable if she looked like Cher, and I do believe they were roughly the same age. But while I am aware that everything from your face to your living room couch eventually deteriorates and falls apart, and is part of a natural order, I'm also aware that old age is mean and nasty and doesn't treat everyone the same way, nor does it accept bribes or respond to threats about their mother, which I discovered was just a lot of wasted energy on my part.
Take Paul Newman for example. Old age treated him pretty damn well. But now take Marlon Brando. It treated him like Jabba the Hutt. It even made Keith Richards be able to walk around and do photo shoots even though I'm sure he died.
So as "natural" as aging may be, unless you're a Shar-Pei, it just doesn't seem "natural" to be happy about becoming a Shar Pei, and be able to hide things like BonBons, and full sets of encyclopedias in your face.
And good genes can only carry you for so long. I have pretty good genes in my family, and morning mirror reflections are still made up of images that challenge "Saw III" movie posters. So seriously, fuck anyone with their aging gracefully bullshit until their single, and 50. Watch how fast their opinion changes, when they're no longer judging the world, from the temporary vantage point of their current perky boob.
Now, I'm not being ungrateful, I am aware that there are people out there with more critical physical issues than say, vanity... and also at this juncture in my life, I could've looked like the talking tree from The Wizard Of Oz. I'd just like to hopefully preempt some possible facial landslides and avoid rudely awakening nice tenants maybe living below me when my face suddenly decides to go Sir Isaac Newton on me, and break their chandelier. Which is just me being a conscientious human being.
Believe me, the thought of something like Botox, the boccelism bacteria, potentially being shot right next to the only brain I barely have, still scares the shit out of me.
I'd definitely feel more comfortable if there were an option to look younger by shooting a lemur into my forehead instead, so I can actually see it. So if it happens to get bored and start walking towards my brain, I'll just smack myself in the head and kill it. But technology's not quite there yet.
Anyway, a few weeks go by, and because my life is a constant wave of exotic locales and samplings, I find myself in the diner again with a friend. And I couldn't help but think about the little old woman who only a few weeks before, was sitting just opposite me. I wondered how she was. If she were doing okay. If she was sipping and falling somewhere.
They bring me over a cup of hot coffee. I guess I felt the subconscious need to prove to myself that I was still young enough to drink my coffee in under a day and a half. I swallow it. 186ยบ later, I scorch the entire back of my throat, burn every single taste bud, and my entire esophagus lining, was no more. And that point I was met with a sudden sense of relief. Wow. That's awesome Dawn! I'm pretty damn stupid. Maybe I'm young, after all.
: )~
~dawn
Now, I don't mean I watched her drink her coffee at some point during the afternoon. What I mean is, half of my afternoon was dedicated to watching this poor little old woman, physically try and negotiate her coffee cup to her lips, and the other two hours of the afternoon, was dedicated to watching her try to put it down.
Suddenly, I didn't feel old. I felt like 4 and a half, and wondered why I didn't take Play Doh with me.
The only time I hear her speak, was her explaining to the waitress that her face was so severely bruised because she fell down a flight of stairs twice in one week. I truly wanted to cry. Although that could've just been an adverse reaction to pink polyester pants with coffee stains and pieces of egg on them. But whatever it was, did make my eyes tear.
I started to think that maybe this poor woman was put before me, to remind myself that despite me looking exhausted that day, I was young enough, vivacious enough, and forthright enough to still go out into this world with a voice, and a passion, and with physical conviction, and still make a difference somehow. Which was a very cool epiphany. However in addition to that epiphany was another one: The realization that my previous scary morning face, was just a little glimpse into the more misshapen facial features to come.
I grabbed my phone and Googled "amazing plastic surgeons/ anywhere in the world" faster than you can say "hematoma."
*Deep breath*. I don't wanna get old. First off, I'm opinionated now. Picture that in 50 years. You'll open my door and all that'll be left of me is a flapping tongue and a frowning pair of eyebrows on the floor.
Secondly, I don't want to get old because they don't have diapers available in velvet thong, but mostly, because I don't deal with my own personal asymmetry very well. Don't even think about moving my perfectly opposing fireplace candles, no less my nasal labial folds. I don't care if you're as crooked as Lyle Lovett in the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just please don't let it be me.
Why does everything about us eventually move South. First our face does, and then we move down to Florida. And who's idea was it to install gravity below us. Why not midway so that everything stays where it's supposed to. I need to see a manager.
If getting old ultimately means losing your quality of life, not being able to mechanically function, needing a calendar to figure out the beginning and end date of the completion of an 8 oz. cup of coffee, falling down a flight of stairs face first is your only regular, daily activity, and I have to look like a Halloween decoration in the process, I'd rather go out James Dean style. Granted, dead in a car, but something to say for being forever remembered in your youthful, shining glory that somewhere, sadly down the line, ear hair, chin hair, melted faces and fear of moths/moth ball stench makes those around us forget we were ever privy to. And I'm certainly not stickin around just to buy those baby blue polyester stretch pants.
Seriously. Am I really supposed to want to eventually look like I thawed? Am I supposed to want my skin on my cheekbones to eventually be worn as shoulder pads? Am I supposed to want someone to eventually be able to use my crepe-like skin as party decorations for my own 60th birthday party?
No. It's highly tacky to use your own skin for your own surprise party.
And please, don't say: "...But it's natural to get old…."
Well it's natural for your breath to smell if you don't brush your teeth, but we brush our teeth, it's natural for your teeth to yellow if you drink coffee or red wine, but we love our Crest WhiteStrips, and it's also natural to lose all your teeth if someone should swing a baseball bat at them, so I'd advise the person who thought that to take my side.
And then people say: "..Yeah, but that's different...that's an accident."
Well sweetheart, so is my aging decrepit face. I never planned on that shit happening either.
Let's of course, not forget the people who feel compelled to say, "...lines and wrinkles show you have experience". Pfft. Oh please. That's what resumes and sex are for.
And the ever popular, "...Yeah I'm NEVER getting plastic surgery, I just want to get old gracefully" people.
The people I'm referring to are of course, always girls in their 20's, whose looks aren't even remotely accurate yet. They still have one foot in their mothers uterus and their faces still harbor some of their mothers magical healing placenta lingering on it. Hence, faces still as tight as a drill sergeants bed sheets.
Come talk to me after your chronic trips to tanning salons turn you into a permanent nacho and a couple of babies have suckled your boobs for 4 years, so much so that your breasts are no longer eligible for a bra, but from where they're newly located, more like eligible for sneakers.
"I just want to age gracefully."
I'm not sure I even know what "Aging Gracefully" means. There's nothing "graceful" about your eyelids eventually falling onto your corneas like a poorly pitched tent. Old people aren't blind, they just have skin hanging over their awesome vision. Nothing graceful about being able to tie 2 stretched out boobs into a sailors knot. Nothing. No matter how slow the process. Nor is "Aging Gracefully", some type of personal choice based on a whimsical declaration. Your face will do what it wants. Irrespective of a naive desire to still look ravishing by 50, you'll more than likely, look like ass shit.
The way I see it, there's nothing wrong with just wanting to keep your face where it's supposed to be - not changing it, just not needing a dustpan to pick it up off the floor.
Come on. Look at the Egyptians. The makeup, the jewelry... even dead, they're gorgeous and youthful looking. They planned and prepared for the eventuality of old age and death by dedicating their entire lives to preserving themselves and erecting tombs. Well, sorry. My back hurts. And I'm not moving 2 1/2 ton blocks unless King Tut's paying for my back surgery. And last I checked, there's no pilates or spin classes for your face. So my"planning and preparing" will consist of getting Restylane shots into my facial furrows and attending plastic surgery banquets.
Yes, true. That little old lady was adorable. We love little old people. Their presence reminds us of our impermanence here. She wouldn't be adorable if she looked like Cher, and I do believe they were roughly the same age. But while I am aware that everything from your face to your living room couch eventually deteriorates and falls apart, and is part of a natural order, I'm also aware that old age is mean and nasty and doesn't treat everyone the same way, nor does it accept bribes or respond to threats about their mother, which I discovered was just a lot of wasted energy on my part.
Take Paul Newman for example. Old age treated him pretty damn well. But now take Marlon Brando. It treated him like Jabba the Hutt. It even made Keith Richards be able to walk around and do photo shoots even though I'm sure he died.
So as "natural" as aging may be, unless you're a Shar-Pei, it just doesn't seem "natural" to be happy about becoming a Shar Pei, and be able to hide things like BonBons, and full sets of encyclopedias in your face.
And good genes can only carry you for so long. I have pretty good genes in my family, and morning mirror reflections are still made up of images that challenge "Saw III" movie posters. So seriously, fuck anyone with their aging gracefully bullshit until their single, and 50. Watch how fast their opinion changes, when they're no longer judging the world, from the temporary vantage point of their current perky boob.
Now, I'm not being ungrateful, I am aware that there are people out there with more critical physical issues than say, vanity... and also at this juncture in my life, I could've looked like the talking tree from The Wizard Of Oz. I'd just like to hopefully preempt some possible facial landslides and avoid rudely awakening nice tenants maybe living below me when my face suddenly decides to go Sir Isaac Newton on me, and break their chandelier. Which is just me being a conscientious human being.
Believe me, the thought of something like Botox, the boccelism bacteria, potentially being shot right next to the only brain I barely have, still scares the shit out of me.
I'd definitely feel more comfortable if there were an option to look younger by shooting a lemur into my forehead instead, so I can actually see it. So if it happens to get bored and start walking towards my brain, I'll just smack myself in the head and kill it. But technology's not quite there yet.
Anyway, a few weeks go by, and because my life is a constant wave of exotic locales and samplings, I find myself in the diner again with a friend. And I couldn't help but think about the little old woman who only a few weeks before, was sitting just opposite me. I wondered how she was. If she were doing okay. If she was sipping and falling somewhere.
They bring me over a cup of hot coffee. I guess I felt the subconscious need to prove to myself that I was still young enough to drink my coffee in under a day and a half. I swallow it. 186ยบ later, I scorch the entire back of my throat, burn every single taste bud, and my entire esophagus lining, was no more. And that point I was met with a sudden sense of relief. Wow. That's awesome Dawn! I'm pretty damn stupid. Maybe I'm young, after all.
: )~
~dawn
