Quick, let’s cradle our faces in our hands and gently pull back the skin at the bottom of our jaws towards our ears and see who we once were.  You know you do that.  We all do.  Who are we seeing when we stretch our jowls back through time?  To a time when we never thought to push the skin forward for a secret glimpse of who we were to become.

 At first, I see the smoothed gentle skin of my younger face.  Then, I see the me behind my eyes.  The me that Freud referred to as self.  Not the anatomy is destiny, me. It is when I let my jaw down, so to speak, that I look at the older, stranger me I am becoming.  My soul seems to age in dog years, while my body catapults forward in people time.  It really is okay, though.  I know there are options such as Restylane, Botox, and face lifts, but that is a step in the direction of Cher and Joan Rivers I’m not willing to take just yet.

I remember seeing my first serious wrinkle.  I was looking into a rearview mirror to put sunscreen on my face right before a five-mile run. Yes, I know.  You wouldn’t believe that by looking at me now.  But then, I was thirty years old and I noticed, for the first time, on the right side of my mouth a crease, a deep crease, an etched crease, a crease that seemed big enough to need its own tube of sunscreen. 

It surprised me.  “Wow,” I remember thinking, “when did that happen?”  But it was a singularity, a oner.  I didn’t get the foreshadowing.  So, I went for my run while my one-wrinkle face had begun an agenda all its own.

We do indeed focus on our aging skin.  And we all know we have better things to think about.  We all know this attention is existentially foolish.  We all know it’s self-indulgent vanity.  We feel a bit ashamed and a bit shallow.  There are far more important issues.

It’s petty, of course, this preoccupation with our post-menopausal, estrogen-deprived, sun-damaged skin.  Very un-Zen-like.  It’s so hard, however, to watch our beauty leak out through the sieve of time, to watch it sustain the relentless erosion of youth with peaceful detachment, especially when we live in a culture dominated by the priceless commodities of beauty and youth.

Phew, I’m out of breath just writing that last sentence.  And I probably just lost another few skin cells.

Young people, however, really are beautiful. And they’re all around us. We have to watch them for the rest of our lives.  And there will be more and more of them and fewer and fewer of us for the rest of our lives.  It’s like watching your best friend walking around with your ex-boyfriend, who dropped you.  You want him back.  You want to touch him.  You know it’s not fair.

Jaw up.  Jaw down. Yet, I am mainly content and at peace with my saggy skin.  My soft, fluid skin.  My moveable feast of flesh.  And while I know there is blight in the world that makes my facial woes truly insignificant, I’m having dinner tonight in my safe and quiet home with my dog and my husband, not in that order, knowing full-well that wrinkles are a luxury.