The Inevitable
by Lindee Rochelle
TIME
It takes away the bloom of youth
No more does the dewy freshness linger
What happens when our bodies age
But our minds refuse to grow old?
L. Rochelle, c.1973; age twenty-five
I am fifty-something years old and still wear my hair in a ponytail in the summer. How about you, ladies? Is your frothy beehive still stiffly in place? Did you know your Capri pants are back in style? Guys, are you still wearing the flattop that is all the rage? How about those heavy gold chains? Many of us cling to our waning youth like a fun fashion fad that we hate to see replaced by next year’s whimsy.
From fashion to football tailgaters, we baby boomers seem to be having a much tougher time accepting the inevitable aging than our parents. We’re still graying (although L’Oreal keeps me ageless), but from what I can determine, growing old is one of those things that sneaks up on you and throws a pie in your face when you least expect it, making you wonder if you are really having fun, or not.
I’ve been told I am young-looking for my age. I haven’t figured out just how to respond to that yet. Is it a compliment? Because I don’t want to look good for my age—I just don’t want to BE my age. I have been alternately ignoring and fighting this getting older thing. I can’t do much to fight it on a limited budget. A face lift is not going to happen any time soon, if at all. And a young, virile, personal trainer is out of my reach, literally. Of course, ignoring it is not the solution, either, when you find it staring back at you from the mirror every morning.
So I try all the silly self-help gimmicks. Cucumbers on the eyes, facial exercises—now there’s something you do not want to do while in rush hour traffic, on the way to work. Your age-defying facial contortions could be mistaken for a serious health problem by a nosey, concerned do-gooder. The next thing you know, a member of the local constabulary is bellowing through his bullhorn for you to pull over.
I am totally envious of rich women over fifty, like Goldie Hawn and Cher. They really look great for their ages. They can afford all the extravagant measures it takes to stave off wrinkles and creases as long as possible. It will, however, creep up on the golden Goldie, too. It will take a little longer than with you and me, but there is no escaping the inevitable.
Go ahead, if you were smarter than I way back when and your retirement is filled with days of “the good life”—get nipped, tucked, and sucked. But what can you do about the creases encircling your neck, like telltale, age-defining rings of a tree? What will you do about the odd way the skin on your forearm layers into leathered folds, as you reach up to caress your young lover’s glowing cheek? It’s inevitable.
I was a mid-twenties, long-legged California Girl working at the University of Berkeley when I made a thoughtless comment that even then, I knew would come back to haunt me someday. Memories of my youthful snobbery haunt my old—um, middle—age. A large group of us from the Institute of Human Development were returning from a pleasant lunch at a Telegraph Avenue bistro, strolling leisurely back in small groups of three or four. Ages ranged from a tender twenty, to a tenured seventy-seven.
Astutely (so I thought), I made the observation that men were eyeing the back view of a lady in our group, then upon passing her, would realize with raised eyebrows and a quick eyes-left that her fifty-year-old face did not match her attractive, youthful figure. “I hope I never get so old-looking that a guy likes what he sees from the back, but turns off when he sees my face,” said I. Aloud. Ouch.
Not only was it a typically brain-dead, youth-stupid comment, but even uttered quietly to the girls next to me, my booming voice carried it to the group in front of us.
Christine whirled around with a look of disbelief and pain on that lovely, fifty-something face. I knew instantly that I’d hurt someone I cared about, and I stammered my apology. At the time though, I did not truly comprehend the effect of my careless impertinence—on me. I do now. I had rubbed an insolent, youthful insult into her raw wound of aging, with a single sentence that would follow me into my own wrinkled future.
It was inevitable. Sooner than later, the Karma of that day hit home. I have experienced a thousand times over that particular injury of slight puffiness under my eyes, and the ever-deepening lines around my mouth that are not attractive to our predominantly youth-conscious society. I see it in their eyes when they turn to look at my face. I look good from the back. And the broken record of my infamous insult reverberates through my mind, as I stare into the mirror at the stranger I have become.
To the painstakingly-pampered young ladies parading around in MY ‘70s hip-hugging jeans and midriff tops, I am someone to be pitied, for being old. If I am acknowledged at all.
Recently, I stopped at a local bar for happy hour. Sipping my beer in reflective solitude, I thought, “Hmmmm, it wasn’t so very long ago that I was able to flirt with young’uns, like the cutie in front of me, stocking beer. Less than ten years ago, I would have smiled coquettishly, and spoken to him, engaging in a little harmless, soul-satisfying flirtation. Today … well, today, I doubt that he even knows I am here.”
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Aging—it’s inevitable. At least, in our lifetime. The Fountain of Youth, or more aptly, genetic altering of our tissues for aesthetic purposes, is ominously near. It will probably be another half millennium, however, before anyone but the very rich will be able to revel in it. Inevitable. For some, their smooth skin and seamless throats will match the twinkle in their eyes a little longer—but you can’t stop it forever. And what is not inevitable is how you adapt to it.
YOUNG AND OLD
Where has the Youth inside of me gone?
Am I really only a hundred-and-one?
My skin is soft, my hair is gold
But my soul feels shrunken, wrinkled and old
Deep inside is the sparkle of Youth
A light which hints at the hidden truth
It bounces inside of me, and finally I know
That Youth leads me on, with Age in tow
L. Rochelle, c.1980; age thirty-two
Can you “grow old gracefully”? Sure—ask the people who have complimented me about having such a great attitude. I just smile wryly, and say, “I get older whether I like it or not, so I may as well enjoy it.” That is what I say, it is not necessarily how I feel—all the time. I do as much as I can within my limited financial budget, for my face and body. I exercise—sometimes—though I am not the slender dancer of my youth, now I’m “voluptuous.” My hair is still long and sassy red, thanks to L’Oreal, who hides my earned gray locks well. I dress in classic styles that span all ages (oh, that leggings would com back in fashion!), leaving fads to the young and those who are forever trapped in the mindset of their youth. I do wear the ever-fresh and stylish denim, but I know I’d be succumbing to my second childhood if I donned those campy bell bottoms or (forgive the visual) hip-huggers, once again.
I had my turn. I thoroughly enjoyed being young and seductive once. However, I enjoy more, the self-assurance, tolerance and peace that have come with growing older. I’ve learned more about life, and myself, in the past ten years than I had pretended to know in the former forty. And I laugh. Yes, like you, I read years ago that repeated laughing and smiling causes “laugh lines” around your eyes—but I made a conscious decision then, to ignore that facial beauty scare. I’m glad I did. Now they (whoever they are) say that laughing keeps us young. Go figure.
So I laugh. At myself for once being so young and stupid. At the youth of every generation for taking themselves so seriously. And add a soft chuckle for anyone of any age who has not realized that youth and beauty are a state of mind. The state of your mind.
For a while, I envied the pretty young ladies in string bikinis and thong suits (though I doubt I would have worn one of those even when my body could have!) frolicking at the shoreline of the beach, where several of my vivacious girlfriends and I once teased all the guys from sixteen to sixty. I don’t envy them any more. I enjoy watching them, and remembering that I had my turn—now it’s theirs.
But I can’t help myself. With a mischievous gleam in my eye, and a small, faintly salacious smile on my lively lips, I think, “Yes, some day they too, will only look good from the back.” It’s inevitable.
A LIFETIME OF SUNSETS
She is fading into the sunset
the bright rays of the golden orb is replaced
with the soft, radiant glow of a harvest moon
She doesn’t know why
but there is no sadness, only peace and acceptance
smiling softly, she knows this is the way it must be
L. Rochelle, c. 1999; age 50.
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Website: www.PenchantForPenning.com
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LinDee Rochelle Thanks for the essay LinDee... J. Wolf
