At 43, I’m supposedly the ideal target for the anti-aging industry, yet I’ve learned to navigate its dubious claims. I’ll admit, in my early 30s, I fell for the hype. (Hello, exorbitant creams!) While I’ve never opted for any “cosmetic enhancements” and have no plans to do so, my collection of natural beauty products is quite impressive.
My careful routine involves gently applying argan oil serum to my forehead and cheeks both morning and night. I whip up DIY body oils using rose hip, avocado, and jojoba, all blended with my secret essential oils. Plus, I create artisanal honey masks with great care.
Instead of resorting to botulinum toxin injections, I rely on Frownies—a skincare secret passed down from my great-grandmother, who maintained a radiant complexion well into her 80s. I learned from her about not just beauty tools, but also the deeper issues our obsession with appearance can conceal.
My grandmother, a stunning woman with a glamorous vanity, would gaze into a large beveled mirror above her marble countertop. I remember running my fingers over her carefully arranged crystal bottles on a vintage silver tray. One day, as she prepared her makeup, a concerned look crossed her face.
“Do you think I need a facelift?” she asked. At just 10 years old, I had no idea what that meant, but she explained it to me. My initial shock faded as I assured her she was beautiful—and a bit crazy.
The Illusion of Youth
When she was younger, my grandmother was often mistaken for a movie star—an aspiration she secretly cherished. Once she hit 50, she started publicly subtracting a year from her age every year. By the time she passed away too soon in 1990, her “real” age was humorously 26. Although it was a family joke, it didn’t always amuse her.
As a child, she affectionately called my hands “paws.” Coming from a family of animal lovers, this term was full of warmth. My hands were delicate and slender, resembling hers, and she often kissed my knuckles, reminding me of our shared traits.
As an adult and freelance writer without a dishwasher, my hands have endured some serious wear. I’ve spent countless hours typing away at outdoor cafes in Manhattan, exposing my hands to the elements. It was only recently that I realized they needed sunscreen too!
Because my “paws” are right in front of me as I work, I’m constantly reminded of their age. Even before they began to show signs of wear, I felt uneasy if I didn’t maintain a manicure. I would dash to the local salon mid-deadline to avoid looking at chipped polish and ragged cuticles.
Finding Balance in Vanity
I often get mistaken for someone in her early 30s. Whether it’s genetics or my beloved argan oil, who knows? While I appreciate the compliment, it’s quickly overshadowed by a sense of discomfort. My background in Women’s Studies and my book, “Coping With the Beauty Myth: A Guide for Real Girls,” remind me of the complexities of beauty standards.
When people think I’m a decade younger, I don’t consider lying about my age like my grandmother did. Instead, I enjoy declaring, “Nope, I’m actually 43!” and relishing their surprised reactions. It’s a blend of vanity and a touch of feminist pride.
However, the delicate “paws” of my youth, once blue-veined and translucent, now reveal my true age. Someone once suggested I hide my hands in a fist on first dates to disguise the wrinkles.
But for my Nanny and Granny—and my mother, who is thankfully more sensible and less vain than the rest of us—I refuse to hide my hands. I’ll proudly display them, crepe-y and all. Just so you know, you won’t pry the Frownies from my hands until I’m cold and dead.
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Summary
Aging can be a complex journey, especially as societal pressures encourage us to maintain youthful appearances. I’ve learned to embrace my age while also cherishing the beauty secrets passed down through generations. My hands, once delicate and youthful, have aged gracefully, and I won’t hide them. With a blend of natural beauty practices and a dash of humor, I celebrate my life at 43.
Keyphrase: Embracing Aging
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