Some days I wish bearded women were in. Today is one of them.
I once vastly improved a chinless ex by talking him into some pretty lush whiskers.
Spotting him recently at a funeral, I noticed he's still sporting a beard forty
years later. Does his wife knows what's under there?
Meanwhile, I resemble a basset hound in a turtleneck, a
situation that is reaching crises level as my daughter's April wedding
approaches.
To paraphrase Catherine Deneuve, At some point you have to
choose between the ass and the face.
Sadly, what I have are really good ankles, which haven't been a
significant lure since about 1915.
While kvetching about my falling face, I've done virtually
nothing but study possible solutions for the past thirty years. Perhaps it's
the German in me, this reluctance to Get Serious About My Skin. As if I should
be able to keep my chin up entirely through force of will.
Oh how stupid are the young. Thirty years ago I looked like
a nymph. A nymph with nearly undetectable scowl lines, what they call inverted
commas between my eyes, no doubt formed from whining about looking older.
That's when a similarly tetched girlfriend and I started a
weekly radio talk show called A New
Wrinkle, to discuss what to do about our nonexistent problems: Retin-A and
Botox and such, then cutting edge. Fortunately, or not, the station (the only
one that would host us) had such a weak signal that my husband had to sit in
the car in their parking lot to listen. We made tapes, but thankfully I no
longer have anything to play them back on.
Now I don't much care about looking older, but how old I
look is another matter. I'd rather not look any particular age at all. Here's
what I want to hear whispered at the wedding:
