The war between gravity, time and paranoia

Recently, I just got the best compliment ever by being rejected service in a bar. In my last trip to New York, I ACTUALLY GOT CARDED! Since my purse was too small for anything else but my lip gloss, AMEX and a bit of cash, and carrying around that horrid green passport was just so lame (I don’t have a driver’s license, I mean I can’t even walk properly let alone drive), I had no proof of age. Meaning I had no proof of jooz in my tipple.

I stupidly tried to explain to the barmaid that I had just bought my first bottle of Prevage that afternoon in Sephora. (It’s a super potion with a powerful anti-oxidant that looks like mustard, smells like frangipani and is so high-tech that it makes those ceramide capsules – made by the same company that makes Prevage – look as retro as cold cream.) She just wanted my ID despite my wearing a Costume National confection with very grown-up Dior knee-high boots. Then I remembered I was in New York, where toddlers traipse around with mini classic bags by Balenciaga. A two-year-old here can be much more sophisticated than me. I was just being plain desperate. Anyway, I started to see the good side of things. After all, I was just recently asking my friend when the appropriate time was to start lying about one’s age. Now I can just say I was just carded, a story I’ll be telling people for the next 10 years.

So, I was maturely sober and pretty happy with my dewy feeling of youth. Aging is very scary for many, except if you’re Audrey Hepburn. I started early; I used La Prarie Skin Caviar and Ceramide Capsules at 20. I had long conversations with myself about having stuff done, like on my nose which looks like a cat’s paw. Of course, I chicken out every time I even think about it. I’ve never gone through any kind of surgery, not even for my tonsils or my appendix. So the thought of being carved like a holiday turkey still scares me. Then I see the scary ones with lips that look like yesterday’s tilapia and skin too taut that they look like they’re making faces. I’ve also seen bionic transformations. Women who I will not dare name, who have had work done and look fabulous. Better even than they were in their younger days.

I guess the key here is like in everything else: moderation. I can see how easy it is to get scalpel-happy. And with this obsession with looking young and nubile, even young girls are starting with a program pretty early. I heard that some teens get Botox done so their faces won’t make expressions. No facial movement equals a lineless face. I can imagine it being very useful as well when they’re lying to their parents or when their first boyfriends dump them.

I made a promise to age gracefully since I’m too scared of scalpels and shows like Nip/Tuck and E’s Dr. 90210 (pretty gnarly, order it from Amazon and watch Dr. 90210 flab around skin like the pom-poms of a cheerleader who just had a triple espresso) have ruined me for life. So I invest in preserving my teenage patina with products made for unhappy women with cheating husbands. My best friend Wendy first got me into it when she started slathering SPF 40 on the beach (yes, you still get a tan) and all these delicious creams meant to stop the ravages of time. I first thought she was crazy, but later I saw my skin under a UV light before some facial specifically meant to trample on your self-esteem and foster a dysfunctional relationship with the sun and caffeine. I looked like a Dalmatian with sunspots hidden under my epidermis waiting to come out, just around the time my children all decide to be part of a cult and my husband leaves me for his secretary. Not good indeed.

She said I could still fight it by taking preventive care. Meaning hundred-dollar creams, vats of self tanner, Ascot hats on the beach, and getting rid of fake friends. (They really cause wrinkles.) Relaxing is also essential, my facialist says, so now I have lots of massages and drink chamomile and tarragon tea at breakneck speed. I also put my cell phone on silent. Those little thing can really be stressful when it’s put on that annoying ring tone that sounds like the siren of an ambulance.

Of course just like me, the contents of this article are very superficial. I guess what really keeps you young is being young. I forever feel like I’m 18 really. Scandales still shock me, and I’m still forever being duped by people. I refuse to be jaded because even if I still handle situations like a dolt from Dawson’s Creek, I still like the fact that I feel things and my face shows it. (Look ma, no Botox!) It’s still a part of me that allows me to explore the world and the creatures that snuggle in it. And in between saving my dignity and forever sifting people out of my life so that I may sleep well at night, a day in Sephora seems to make a just reward for the pseudo adolescent lifestyle.