Life on the Orchard Floor
I remember the last time I felt really good about my looks. It was the summer of 2006 and my therapist had just compared me to a ripened peach hanging on a tree. She was trying to explain, metaphorically, that I was about to lose it in the looks department. But did I care? At the time I was in my forties and had yet to see a wrinkle. Nary a crow’s foot or varicose vein in sight. I had been blessed with good genes and father time had yet to level a blow to my ever-ripening, peach-like bod.
I did wonder if my wild child past might catch up with me one day and much like Dorian Gray, a painting of my likeness sat in an attic somewhere aging like a horse beast. Perhaps one day I’d awaken, riddled with the consequences of my misspent youth, monster face and all. Time would tell.
As much as I enjoyed being a metaphoric peach, luscious and juicy dangling from the branch, all good things must come to an end, and as expected, this peach has fallen from its branch, landing with a giant splat on the grassy knoll of life.
Battered and bruised, I’m now in the decomposition stage. After a sleepless night, I can usually scare myself awake with a quick glance in the mirror. Holy Shit! When did that happen? I often wonder, taking stock of the dark bags under the eyes, sallow skin, and my neck…God help me…I’ve got chicken waddle!
The wrinkles have begun to show and while the first tiny lines were easy to ignore, I can no longer ignore the cracks and crevasses which seem to pop up overnight. I’m currently sporting a zig-zag wrinkle in the middle of my forehead Harry Potter would be proud to claim. And no amount of anti-aging, line-minimizing, age-reversing lady spackle can be troweled on to cover it all.
I’m not ready to put a paper bag over my head, but the day might be coming. Scarves have become my best defense. I’ve invested in several dozen to cover the chicken neck, and my closet is starting to look like Steven Tyler’s dressing room.
I also find myself gravitating toward magazine ads for skin care, specifically anti-aging products. And while I know it’s all hype, I drool over any skin lotion with a high rating or medical research behind it. I want to believe in miracles, yet almost always the products are a complete disappointment. What’s a peach to do?
Let’s admit it; we’re all slightly deluded when it comes to our looks. Never more so than gen-x women over 50. We’ve had it drummed into our heads by the media for decades that (even in our middle years) we’re supposed to have perky buoyant breasts and flat washboard abs, buns of steel and a luxurious mane of hair. And if we don’t have them then we’d damn well better go buy some!
I know women who devote large portions of each paycheck toward this endeavor. They augment their breasts, add hair and eyelash extensions, inject botox to smooth their wrinkles and Restylane to plump their lips. All in an effort to create the “illusion of youth”, and believe me, it’s not just an illusion at my age, it’s a full-on freaking David Copperfield extravaganza.
Even our president-elect, a man voted into the highest office in our country, a role model for our nation, has admitted he has a rating system for women that precludes flat-chested females as he feels they’re somehow sub-par. Ain’t that just peachy?
Thank heavens I’m married to a man who loves my lumpy peach bod just as it is. He values my being, my heart and soul. Still, every now and then it’s nice when someone looks at you twice (besides the man legally obligated to look at you).
The other day, while furniture shopping, I found myself in just such a situation. Maybe I was too jacked up on chai tea lattes to recognize what was really going on, but I was pretty certain that a fellow shopper had attempted to flirt with me.
I’d stopped to admire a retro poster of a Spanish bullfight when a handsome stranger leaned over my shoulder to look at the poster. “Have you ever seen la corrida de toros in person?” he asked in an exotic accent. His dark smokey eyes locked with mine and I shook my head, words failing me.
He then asked if I’d ever run with the bulls in Pamplona. C’mon buddy, seriously? I smiled and said I hadn’t because I was actually in possession of my sanity, but understood some people’s need for that kind of thrill.
We shared a laugh as he admitted he had never run with the bulls either. For a moment I swear I heard mariachi music floating on the breeze somewhere in the distance and the roar of a crowd thirsty for the blood of el toro.
The moment passed, we said goodbye and I left the store with a renewed spring in my step. “You’ve still got it, girl,” I told myself grinning ear to ear. Some stranger had validated my looks and I’d enjoyed it. Oh yeah, I was all that and a bag of chips. Double snaps!
But a quick check in my car’s rearview mirror sent me crashing, face first, back into reality. The woman staring back from the mirror was far from the sexy señora I’d imagined. Beneath my puffy, sleep-deprived eyes were two thick smudges of mascara that trailed halfway down my cheeks and I had lipstick on my front teeth. I looked like a cross between The Joker from Batman and a rabid caffeine-riddled raccoon.
A startling thought occurred to me; maybe the exotic stranger in the shop hadn’t been hitting on me at all. Perhaps he’d assumed I was old enough to have attended the bullfight depicted in the poster. Maybe he was interested in my historical perspective. Yep, all the pieces fit.
As I wiped the mascara from my face and lipstick from my teeth I had to laugh at my temporary insanity, and reminded myself that the only validation that really matters is my own. I can finally accept that I’m no longer a juicy peach dangling in the orchard of life, and I don’t mind hanging out on the grass with the other old fruits. It’s a gassy but fun crowd.
Youth is so elusive and ephemeral, yet many women my age seem intent on chasing the past, never quite satisfied with the status quo. While I understand my generation’s almost manic need to cling to youth, I hope the next generation can look inward for validation and find their self-worth in the size of their character rather than the size of their lips or breasts. After reading Winnie Lim’s article “The Courage to be Ourselves”, my faith’s been restored that the next generation will be breaking, no, shattering those stereotypes.
The media has perpetuated an impossible image of womanly beauty and crammed it down our collective throats long enough. I may be past my shelf life by current societal standards, but I’m happy with the woman I am today, chicken-neck and all. I have the confidence that comes with age and the wisdom born of experience. A powerful combination, indeed. While it may have taken me 50 plus years to achieve, I have faith that the next generation will move a little faster. Warp speed, ladies!
