Monday, June 27, 2016

A Story for Every Wrinkle

When Jacob persuaded Esau to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage, my sympathies were with Esau. I had to ask what it was that exchanged hands and although pottage sounded unappetizing, let alone a mess of it, it was obvious that Jacob was the conniving little chiseler who would be shunned in any schoolyard. Only a weasel would convince his brother to relinquish something he had the right to own for a temporary pleasure. It violated every rule I’d been taught about fair play and I was shocked that Esau, not Jacob, was punished.

I read the Old Testament in the same way that I devoured Grimm’s Fairy Tales and after encountering Esau, I absorbed its lessons in a twisted fashion, tempered with moral outrage and skepticism. The foolish virgins made complete sense to me; why save that damned lamp oil for a day that might never come when there was a party going on right now? I lived in a household of lamps, fueled with a byproduct of oil, and nobody ever said turn out the lights to save fuel for tomorrow. We used what we had and did without when it was gone.

It is probably a stretch to blame the Old Testament for what’s going on with me as I approach my 68th birthday but I’m fairly certain that it comes into play as an influence in my formative years. Wiser virgins flossed and used sunscreen. Moisturizers were part of their daily rituals, and as information emerged about skin cancer and sun damage, they cultivated pallor, not a solar-induced tan. But not me.

I took great pleasure in absorbing as much sunlight as I could and only burned on tropical beaches, when light bounced off saltwater. I went beyond bronze to brown in a nanosecond and soaked up direct sunlight every chance that I had. Sunscreen seemed to be a big waste of time and counterproductive to a woman who felt that summer began only when her tan was secured.

When the subject of wrinkles arose, I countered with the unassailable beauty of Georgia O’Keefe.

Then came the day that I smiled at myself in a mirror and almost screamed. The crowsfeet that I had always thought brought character to my face had become pterodactyl tracks and below them on either cheek were small lines that had gone rogue. It was as though on the night before, as I slept, my skin had been sprayed with battery acid.

Moisturizer, I discovered is not retroactive, although I have wondered more than once about glycolic chemical peels. When I do, Germaine Greer comes to mind, scoffing that in fending off the effects of age, women run the risk of turning into petulant, querulous old girls. Two images come to mind: Georgia O’Keefe and a curdled old Scarlett O’Hara, still flashing her earbobs and stamping her feet, and I know it’s time to ante up. I bet and I lost. That particular lamp is out of oil.

High blood pressure has turned me into that dreary old broad who squints at sodium labels in the aisles of grocery stores. Loss of bone mass makes me spend the equivalent of a perfectly good Happy Hour on a single pill that I swallow once a month. But that is not the worst of it.

The best that can be said about the worst is that it is temporary and it certainly isn’t life-threatening. The worst is that it will have lasted for three months by the time that it’s finally over and those three months have been a portion of my life that has been truncated as never before.

When spring burst into flower, I was diagnosed with gum disease and because of it, two of my teeth had to be removed. Since they were my two front teeth on the bottom, I have not smiled since the beginning of April and their replacements won’t be ready until mid-July.

My face has never been my fortune but my personality has. I’ve always had a voice and I’ve used it, getting by on wit of sorts and a smile. Now I dip my head when I speak in public and my smile is closed-lipped and inauthentic. I had to restrain myself from buying a burka to wear on trips to Trader Joe’s and I only spend time with the people whom I know best. Not only has my travel been curtailed, so have my local excursions, and that is difficult.

Paying for past sins is one way of looking at this, so are those foolish virgins, and poor old Esau staring at an empty plate and a bartered future. But the only sane point of view, as far as I’m concerned, is this is my life, all of it. Some women use sunscreen, some women don’t floss. Whether we have spent our days being prudent or happily squandering everything we have, we all face vanished waistlines and sagging necks. Some of us however come away with much better stories than our wiser sisters. And for some of us, the stories are worth the physical loss that comes with reckless adventures or satisfied appetites, and I’m positive Esau would agree with me.


Sherry said...

Funny, interesting AND cool. Honest and true as well. A tale very familiar to me and when you add in my years of living in the southwest and always being in the sun, the results are painfully predictable. But it's my face and I think I'll keep it. I'm almost getting to like it with the changes - just the southward migration of what used to be cheekbone padding still nags regularly reminding me I am 'that' old.
Interesting that we both find solace in the beauty of Georgia. Character, I think, is valued less in the faces of women than it should be. In any case, we now have character. Let's celebrate that. (I think I'll have a glass of wine.)

Janet Brown said...

Raising my glass of Malbec in your direction, with thanks!