Living in L.A., and being prone to compulsive thought processes, my latest obsession has been wrinkles. I suppose this is better than my short lived "I might be a lesbian" phase since I couldn't seem to connect with men and I had no trouble keeping girlfriends. Of course, after locking myself in a bathroom stall and calling my other in a panic over my new revelation, she had the intelligence to inform me that along with liking women for their brains, I must be willing to like their bodies and have sex with them for pleasure. Obession ended. (And no offense to any lesbians out there that read this. I love you all, but I'm freaky enough as it is. I don't need any other chick's emotion on top of it. Or on top of me. And not with work boots or bad bowl cuts. )
Hear that clunk? That was my one lesbian reader hitting her desk, offended as she applies her lipstick and looks cuter than I ever will. Hugs?
My new wrinkle obession is vastly higher than the "I am newly married and happy but I'm convinced I'm going to die of breast cancer... on Wednesday." It is only slightly lower than my "What if pour this cup of hot coffee onto my head? I don't want to, but I could, so does that mean I really do want to but won't admit it until I scald myself and end up one of those cutters living in an institution" phase. (That particular obsession ended early for the sheer fact that I would probably never get to drink coffee in the mental ward, and that would forever sadden me more than my burn marks. Saved by Yuban! Hoooraaah!)
My point: I'm almost 37. And while I pride myself at taking my age in stride and taking care of myself, I have started to see lines around my eyes. When I smiled the other day, I saw a dimple. Which would be cute if it really were a dimple, but it was instead a wrinkle.
I can attribute my new facial marks to the fact that I didn't wear enough sunscreen ever, or I abused my skin with shampoo for soap rather than fancy cosmetics when the kids were born (sad, but true) but the truth? I'm getting older.
And then I started looking at facelift sites. You know, because that's what we obsessive thought process people do.... Ex: "Hmmm, I have a freckle. My cousin's friend's mom had a mole one day and the next day croaked head first into a plus size bag of Skittles... I'm going to DIEEEEEEEEEE!"
Most cosmetic surgery sites showed the before and after photos. And here's the deal: Sure, each patient looked a bit more nipped, a bit more tucked. But you know what? They still looked 45, or 55, or like an ugly 26 year old with bigger breasts or a geeky guy who now has hair. What's the point? You can spend 2 or 20 k - you're still going to look your age and type.
This search got me thinking - something clearly I don't need to do anymore of, but none the less, here goes... no matter how perfect someone's skin is (say Dolly Parton), how can we still look at them and deduce their age? Why does she clearly appear in her 60's if her face is as flat as a teenagers? And if a teenager has acne and pock marks, how can we still tell that she's young?
Before you think me mad, let me inform you that the one saving grace about my obsessive compulsive nature is that coupled with it is a fairly low attention span, as well as pride and an irritation at futility. I get bored of my little crazy thoughts and within seven days, eight at the most, I tell my wacko brain messages to take a hike. But I encourage them not to thumb a ride with the lesbian sixty year old with the bad face lift and Dolly Parton melons... those are just my old neuroses floating around the boulevard and they'll rip your eyes right out.