Every year I look forward to my birthday. Every year except this one.
When I was 19 years old, 28 seemed so ancient. Yet here I am now, just two days away from it. I can’t believe it’s knocking on my door already. I can’t believe I’m about to officially enter the late 20s demographic.
The degenerative process has already started for me. With my one grey hair, my brittle, peeling skin, and my pronounced laugh lines, which make me regret ever smiling, I definitely can’t pass for a 25-year old anymore. Even with the short cutsie haircut I got yesterday I still look prematurely old from up close.
To think that the aging wheel is only going to go downhill faster from here onwards … it’s really quite depressing. No wonder models, dancers, and actresses have trouble dealing with it. No wonder they turn to anti-wrinkles creams, laser treatment, and botox. They don’t want to lose their face, which is not just their product and their livehood, but their identity as well.
Sooner or later I may have to remove or cover up all the mirrors in my home. I don’t want to see the growing damage. I’m just too scared. I really don’t have anything to offer to the world except my face (or what’s left of it). Once that’s totally gone, you might as well toss me to the garbage with the old banana peels.
I give myself five years tops until my youth is fully obsolete and no man my age (with decent taste) will look at me without screaming “old!”
Once you’re old, the quest for beauty is futile. You can’t beat nature. You have no choice but to let the decay run its course. When I get to that point, I don’t know what I’ll do besides going bonkers. Being unable to do anything to attain physical perfection will surely kill me.
I guess if I had one birthday wish this year and every other year after this one, it would be to never see myself old.
Aging November 30, 2007
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