But what do I know? My top lip is disappearing.
“How can my mouth change so much?” I asked one of my know-it-all-about-everything-cosmetic friends.
“Well as you get older, your lips thin,” she said in that snotty way she’s known for, since she’s had everything imaginable tucked and knotted. “I’ll invite you to my next collagen party.”
“That’s OK,” I shuddered. “I don’t think I dislike my skinny lip enough to stick a needle in it.”
“Don’t wear lipstick,” she said. “It only advertises that you’re down to one lip.”
“What about my eyes?” I said. “I’m growing little skin tents on my eyelids.”
“You can have that fixed,” my friend said as she made a scissor-snip motion with her fingers.
“But we can’t get rid of that wrinkled curtain look between the chin and the collar bones,” I said.
“That’s why scarves were invented,” she said.
“Those liver spots on your hands,” I pressed. “You can’t get rid of those, either.”
“And that’s exactly why I wear gloves,” she said.
“Even in the summer?”
“Sure,” she nodded. “Do whatever you have to do to avoid looking your age.”
Yesterday, I heard on TV that the amount of men using botox has increased more than 300 percent in the last year. How about that? All these plastic, nonmoving faces in the world ... both genders will have to resort to cue cards that say things like, “I’m smiling at you. But because my face won’t move, focus on the sparkle in my eyes.”
In a month or so I’ll be 55. And I probably don’t need to even tell you that my face looks like a well-used baseball mitt.
It says a lot about me, though. It says that I am in love with the sun.
I have no interest in trying to make some body parts pretend like they are 20-something areas, somehow stuck to a 55-year-old body.
Maybe I’m weird, but I happen to like all the lines on my face.
The deep crevices across my forehead developed years ago under the stress and worry of raising a child alone. But when I look at those lines today, I am reminded that God worked out every single worry. I have a healthy, happy and successful adult child. I worried over nothing.
Those lines around my mouth are from laughing like crazy with my silly friends.
The dark patches under my eyes? Sleeplessness. I’d rather stay up all night and listen to the rain than go to bed like regular people.
I can count the wrinkles at the edge of my eyes and recall the pain I’ve experienced in my life. At the same time, I remind myself that yes, my heart has been stomped on.
But on the bright side, the old ticker still beats. It is strong and resilient, just like my wrinkled soul.
Why would I want to erase the stories on my face, just so I can pretend to look 10 years younger?
Lord knows, I sure don’t want to go backward.
I was still a moron back then.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.