Several times recently, I’ve seen someone on television who is about my age and they look old. (And by ‘someone’, I mean a real person, like that lady on the Dr. Oz show . . . not a fake person like Teri Hatcher or any of those “Housewives” with botox foreheads.)
And I think I’ve lost touch with reality because I don’t think I look old like those people I’ve seen who are my age. But I probably do.
Awhile back, I was fretting while putting on makeup, worrying about the under-eye circles that have plagued me since I was a teenager. What would people think when they met me? Then I realized that people would not expect me to be twenty, considering I’ve been married for twenty-three years to a man who is almost fifty . . . and he has gray hair. So, it’s okay to have saggy eyelids, I guess, considering I’m married to a guy with male pattern baldness. (And I think he’s adorable.) It’s okay to look forty-five.
It’s still strange.
I’m kind of looking forward to being really old and wrinkled. I think there will be so much less pressure to look cute then. Of course, then I will wonder why I didn’t totally relish having the face of a forty-five year old.
Pass the eye cream.