Age Ambiguity

I recently caught an episode of  Katie Couric’s new show. The topic was anorexia and bulimia. It seems that this body dismorphic disease is rising in logarithmic proportions in women in their forties and fifties. The spike is attributed to an unprecedented generational fear of aging.

When we got to the airport on Sunday there was a slim, extremely attractive, expensively dressed, model-like woman. And I found myself staring at her—not just because of her beauty--but because something seemed a little bit off.

Her face was flawless—too flawless. There were absolutely no wrinkles ---her skin was perfectly smooth. Yet unlike Hollywood housewives, it was not frozen-- it still moved fairly naturally.

Her plastic surgeon  was highly skilled. This woman was was age-ambiguous.

But no amount of exercise, anorexia, or liposuction could hide her barest menopausal pooch. And even more telling was the skin on her forearms and hands. They showed her middle age like a badge of carbon-14. Her appendages revealed what her face kept secret.

And I will not lie. I maintain my weight. And sometimes I look in the mirror and think a bit of filler might be nice as well as a more relaxed forehead. Yet even without tweaking, the female elders in my family have never lost their beauty. They are like luminescent copper with a fine patina. They are well preserved. And what I have learned from them is that the healthy goal is to look good for your age—to appear younger than your chronology—but not to the point of absurdity.

Because no one wants to be an afflicted outcast on the Katie Couric show nor do they want to attract unwanted critiques from strangers on the security line in the airport. We just  want to age really really gracefully.