What the hell happened to my face?

My genetic pool is such (Thanks Mom!) that I never really concerned myself with aging. Ever. That was the one thing I knew I had beat. In my twenties, I knew that if I took my boyfriend to my parent's house, that would cement my relationship. Once they saw how fantastic my Mother looked, how young she appeared, they would be impressed. And look at me and think, "hey, she is gonna stay good looking for a long time". And I was correct. 

Boyfriend: "Wow. Is that your Mom?"

Me (shyly smiling): "Yes, why?"

Boyfriend: "She's hot." Pause. "Really hot". Pause. "Too bad she's not single". 

Me (underneath my breath through gritted teeth): "Well...now you certainly are."

Okay,so sometimes it backfired but overall Mom was my ace in the hole. Then one day, I will admit it was a while after crossing the burning sands (my 40th birthday), I was brushing my teeth while looking into my bathroom mirror. Hmmm...what are those lines around my mouth? They seem pretty deep; were they always there? I smile. They vanish. I stop smiling. They remain. Taunting me. I smile again. What the hell are those little lines underneath my eyes? I stop smiling. They go away. "See your Mother was right...if you keep making that face it will stay that way". I instantly start crying. Loudly. (More on inexplicable emotions at a later date).

Good lord, what else have I missed? All day, in every mirror, every reflective surface, I begin to assess myself. While trying on big black sunglasses in Bloomingdales, I notice my neck still looks good. No ring around the roses happening there. Check. 

Outside in front, I raise my arm to hail a cab. Oh God, look at the hanging chicken fat underneath the upper part of my arm that continues to swing back and forth as I hail this cab with simple wrist only action. I cannot stop staring. Great, missed the damn cab. Check. 

Boobs still look high and mighty as I stroll into the restaurant, back rigidly straight, per the smokingly sexy smiley look on the face of my blind date. Work it girl. Check. 

Shit, forgot to apply extra moisturizer to my elephantine elbows as evident by the grimace on the face of my blind date as he takes said elbow to steer me to our table. Why the hell is he taking my ELBOW anyway? Sigh...and check. During the dessert, underneath the table, I secretly apply lotion to my knees...just in case. Check. 

Back at home with my well oiled appendages after my date ended early, as I put the vodka bottle on the bathroom sink counter in order to remove my face makeup, I notice an unexplained reddish "mound" dead center on my chin. In addition to the small equally angry pimple which appears in my cleavage. Drink. Cry. Check.  

Through a drunken, teary haze, I strip down completely naked and focus. Staring determinedly at every little bit, every little pore, every little...thing. And then I slowly realize: It's not SO bad. Not twenty, not even thirty, but not bad. Everything is still in it's place even if it's not as high or as blemish free or as *ahem* small as it used to be. During sex I won't have to turn off the lights but I might dim them just a little. Check.  

And even though I am surrounded by every wrinkle cream, moisturizer, age defier, botox in a jar product as I write this, I am happy to still look like me. A seasoned, well refined but can still turn a few heads Me. Look, I know that you cannot look like you are in your twenties forever; I was just hoping for a little bit longer - I mean, remember I have that great gene pool.

Thanks again Mom. 

xo,

Fourty(ish) and Fabulous