I just received a sample of a new beauty product; a “finishing cream.” According to the text on the ad, it is “…not a moisturizer, primer or foundation.”  It’s job is to use its “cushiony texture” to ” erase the look of lines, wrinkles and pores.”

So, it’s spackle, right? Either that or some sort of biological weapon that causes partial blindness within a twenty foot radius. Either way, I’m a big fan. Thank you, scientists, for dedicating your considerable intelligence toward saving innocent bystanders from my decrepitude.

The timing couldn’t be better as I’ve been working on assimilating a new bit of information. I bent down to lace up my shoe and realized I’m getting serious old lady skin on my legs; a little bit translucent, blue veins, chapped. Just now I took a minute to contemplate my arms and realized if I rotate my wrists in a circle, the skin on my arms looks just like a towel when you are wringing the water out of it. Amazing. I spent five minutes perfecting my new party trick.

The thing is, I don’t feel like I should be cowering in shame. Au contraire. I feel just like a baby who has accidentally pulled their foot into their mouth for the first time. Like, “Holy hell! How did that happen?” The baby isn’t horrified or judgy. The baby is fascinated. That’s how I feel; fascinated, not horrified.

Okay, if I were entirely honest, it’s probably more like 80% fascinated, 20% horrified, but mostly it isn’t bothering me at all. Because I am above all that, that’s why. Or I’m striving to and it would be a whole lot easier if everyone would get on board, instead of fighting so freaking hard to stay 21 years old.

Folks are expending a lot of energy attempting to convince themselves that we have somehow found the secret to perpetual youth when, really, it seems more like an extended adolescence. To my mind running around, saying things like “50 is the new 30!” is pretty much horse feathers. HORSE FEATHERS, you whippersnappers!

First off, my mom has a picture of my Grandparents in their fifties and every time I look at it I can not believe how great they look. I mean, if 50 was the old 50, current logic dictates they should have been hunched over their walkers hissing at the sun not rocking a jet black beehive and mini-skirt, showing off their legs. (Oh, Grandpa…) I will bet you serious dollars that fifty-year-olds have ALWAYS felt younger than whatever fifty-year-olds are supposed to feel like.

Secondly, behaving like an insecure teenager doesn’t make you young. It makes you annoying. Teenagers are terrible role models. Their endless fussing and primping, while important to those trying to figure out who, exactly they are with their new independence, does not translate well to adults. It comes off as peevish and vapid. It’s like we don’t even care what sort of people we’ve turned out to be as long as our foreheads are immobile and line free.

And none of this makes for what truly keeps our spirits youthful. For that, and this may seem to run a little counter to my argument, you need to set your intentions even younger. Think six or maybe seven years old. Shoot for a sense of wonder and unbounded energy and a raucous and slightly annoying sense of humor. Have a willingness to play in the dirt. Moon your brother and kiss your mom. Never wear matching socks– life is short, people! Decorate everything with glitter and you will feel years younger, I promise.  Besides, that’s a much easier physical ideal to live up to. Pudgy belly, flat chest, wild and unfettered hairstyle….? Check, check and CHECK.

 

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The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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