Due to unforeseen circumstances, Patty Kimerer was unable to complete this week’s column. Instead, we bring you this classic Kimerer first released on September 21, 2014.
I’ve never been one to complain about getting old. Well, not seriously anyway.
I mean, the aging process is, as they say, a privilege not given to everyone. It is a gift, a blessing, an honor. Sure heck beats the alternative.
So, honestly, I’m really pretty okay with getting older. Most. At large. Generally. Instead. Somehow.
For example, gray hair does not bother me at all. And that’s because I beat him into submission by dyeing him my previously natural chestnut color. So the.
But then again, there are those confusing age spots. I could do without.
What’s the deal with these little buggers, anyway? You walk around, you get used to the fact that you can only run one third as fast as you can in your peak when you look at your legs and BAM! here they are – Mother Nature’s ugly little trick on the body’s largest organ. Some even call them “Spots of Liver” – can you imagine?
What causes those unsightly battle scars in the War of the Ages, anyway? According to the Mayo Clinic, “Age spots are primarily caused by years of exposure to ultraviolet (UV) light from the sun.”
Wow, that sun is such a capricious mamma jamma as Mother Nature, isn’t it? Talk about age discrimination! I mean, when you’re young and you tan, they say you’ve been “kissed by the sun.” Apparently, after 45 years, those hints of sunshine turn into permanent brown hickeys.
Then there’s the inevitable age-related change in vision.
Even if you haven’t yet experienced the splendor of the seemingly overnight need for bifocal lenses, the over 40 set, usually and at a bare minimum, requires “cheaters” to read anything printed within reach or farther or nearer. Suffice it to say that once we could clearly glean whether it was two inches from our noses or located four miles down the block now requires the aid of the Hubble telescope to view.
More hmpf. Which brings me to the granddaddy of them all, wrinkles/sagging skin.
Look, just as the vinyl siding of the New England home that has endured more than 4 1/2 decades of brutal Northeasts, savage winters and occasional hurricanes of the past four decades openly bears its wounds, the Nor can the human outer layer withstand constant wear and tear unscathed. And that dangerous gravity doesn’t help matters either.
But, folks, and let me be perfectly clear on this point: not one of us over 45 needs to be reminded that we have gray hair, age spots, distorted corneas and/or embossed wrinkles, okay? In the past week alone, three people I care deeply about were verbally approached about their telltale signs of aging. One of them wrote this column.
“Oh, are you here for our options?” asked the receptionist at a local plastic surgeon when I wandered into the office to hand out a flyer last Tuesday afternoon.
“What? No, I just came to invite you to an event” I said, my voice trailing off as I watched her study every line on my face as if following the highway on a map of the United States to find the quickest route to her hometown of Youthville.
“Hmm. Maybe you should consider it. Would you like a brochure? she says.
I think. It was hard to hear it from my car with the radio blaring and the tires screeching.
And, as for the woman who told my girlfriend she needed Botox. You better watch it, Missy, or you’re gonna need to see that plastic guy after I put you in your future big lip.
Then there was the photographer who suggested to my other girlfriend (about 35 years my senior) that she would be better off buying the “reinforcement” option of his family photo which has just been taken to eliminate all imperfections. Suggesting virtual Botox is, again, unnecessarily hurtful.
I can handle aging. It’s the coupons for tummy tucks, eye lifts, and injected, sculpted, laser-tipped, and other body modifications that make me feel old. Well, hang on, fellow buddies. I’m here for you – no, no, I’m here – if you squint, you see me better!