Updated: Jan 27
You know how Google Photos sends you daily photos that you took anywhere from six days to six years (or more) ago?
Rcently, photos from the 2017ish era (mostly selfies) have been popping up. I study them closely and notice a wrinkle free, exceptionally beautifully highlighted, not to mention toned woman who is freshly 30.
I was one of the rare ones who actually got excited to turn 30. According to the internet, a highly reputable source, the third decade in life would bring a bigger bank account, a level of professional respect, yet still having the same aesthetics as when you were in your 20s! Hello, win-win. Unless you’re one of those girls who wants to date older men who only date 25 and younger. Then sorry, time’s up.
As I write this, it’s been well over four years since I turned 30. Do the math.
So basically, I'm 100.
When I smile, there are these things called “crows feet” that creep around my eyelids. So what am I supposed to do? Sit around like a stoic bitch, void of any signs of any sort of emotional reaction? I mean… have you seen Sebastian Maniscalco? No one sits expressionless watching him.
Or I can follow the Beverly Hills and Miami crowds and join the Botox club. I have no desire to do so, nor do I understand it. What on earth does $10000000 per unit mean? Some “esthetician” is going to put units of a muscle freezer into my face? Eeek.
Then there’s the second option, to age “gracefully.” I don’t really do anything gracefully. I walk fast, tend to trip, and get awkward when uncomfortable in a social situation. My writing is certainly anything but graceful.
My maternal grandmother did age gracefully. I know this because I have studied her photos over the course of her nine decades long life. They say aging is genetic. So maybe there is hope for me.