A Peck of Gold

When Angels Get Old

Oh, Farrah. What have you done to your self? You should have gone out gracefully, it would have been okay with us! You had a good run, you were gorgeous! Sigh. I sincerely hope that aging isn't so traumatic that I will do anything to preserve my youth.

I'm 28, and I'm just beginning to understand the complexities of aging. I would say in the mid twenties, you begin to notice little things that are different about your appearance. It starts to dawn on you that, hey, you're not going to look like this forever. It's nothing that's totally freaked me out, but who's to say that in ten years, I will be as cool about it as I am now? I recognize that in an industry where your looks are your number one asset (as a general rule), aging for a woman must be a nightmare. If your entire self worth is defined by how you look, every line and wrinkle is a declaration of war. But this doesn't just apply to women in Hollywood. Women everywhere define themselves by their looks, and subject themselves to extraordinary measures to fight the ravages of time. They usually end up with eyebrows that won't rise, cheeks that can't crease, and a mouth that won't open all the way. Wearing this stationary mask of perfection - it erases the truthfulness of living. They condemn themselves to a single, emotional response for the rest of their lives, all to escape a few laugh lines and gray hairs.

I'm not being critical of taking care of your body, or making improvements in yourself. I'm not saying plastic surgery is wrong. I am simply saying that we need to have a realistic view of growing old. We need to stop seeing it as such a negative factor, to be fought at all costs. There is no medical procedure that will stop the clock. No amount of surgery will stall time forever. We all pass that bloom of youth. Somehow, we have to come to terms with that, and find the value in life that goes beyond the surface. We always hear the phrase, "looks aren't everything". I think it's time we start believing that.

I say this, hopefully, to prepare myself for the eventuality. I hope that I have the guts to be honest about myself as I get older. I pray that when I am eighty, I am confident and happy and proud. I don't want to be fighting for my youth at that age. I want to be content to know that those days are passed, content to find my self worth in something deeper than my skin. I want to look down and see my eighty year old hand, and not think, oh, how ugly and sad. I want to look instead and see the hand that held babies, that folded clothes, that wiped tears, that planted flowers, that wrote love letters, that LIVED.

If it shakes a little, that's okay with me.

I am eighty after all.

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Posted by Shannon at October 20, 2003 12:46 AM | TrackBack