Me Me Me

I still have my original face. I may well be the only woman my age in New York City (other than my immediate circle of friends) who does. I am eager to do something to “refresh” this face, and according to Vogue, I’ve waited at least a decade too long to start. When it comes to aging, denial is a powerful thing — until somebody snaps a photo and you’re confronted with those pesky pleats running down both cheeks. Who cares?! You’ve got your health! Yeah, and I also want my youth. I don’t want to become just another invisible middle-aged woman whizzing toward the AARP.

None of this would matter, I suppose, if I hadn’t formulated my theory that in order to remain happily married, couples must maintain the same level of attractiveness. The sad fact is that men in their 50s somehow preserve their faces better than women in their 50s. Unfair! But undeniably true. At the beginning of the decade, you’re a matched set. By 60, you’re Poppy and Barb Bush or John and Elizabeth Edwards. 

Women fear this fate, and the sidewalks of Southampton are packed with ladies who have subconsciously embraced my theory and attempted to stop the clock. Unfortunately, many of them have swapped their cheek pleats for an alarming death’s head look, mashed potato-like fillers or Mr. Spock eye lifts. No, no, no.

If only I could sidle up to Susan Lucci or Christie Brinkley or Demi Moore and say, “Okay, what did you do, and who did it?” None of this nonsense celebrities tell More magazine about how they have good genes and get a lot of sleep. But for now, I will concentrate on stuff I can control, like seeing my precious young trainer twice a week — in spite of the fact that Equinox is lined with mirrors that force me to confront my face as it continues its downhill slide.