I usually smile at myself in the mirror, much as I would coming face to face with someone else. I joke that having poor eyesight is a blessing at a certain age; I don’t have to see the lines the Anti-Aging Industrial Complex is warning me to fear.
Can I look in a mirror and see a familiar face, one that belongs to someone I’ve seen through the bright times and dark days, without fear or judgment? My refusal to get caught up in the way I look is a point of pride. And perhaps also a form of self-protection.
I like to think I refuse to adopt an actual skin-care routine because I’m truly not concerned about my appearance. But is it the feminist in me (as I claim) or the pretty-enough girl who would never be a beauty feeling relieved at the chance to bow out of the competition? I guess it doesn’t matter.
What if the only thing you knew about your face was the reaction of other people? I assume you’d figure out where you landed on the attractiveness scale. But without the details, would you be free from the desire to change things around? Would the joy you evoked in the eyes of your loved ones be enough?
I think we want to be beautiful because we want to be loved. Isn’t that at the root of most of our desires and behaviors? I live in a world that is obsessed with youth and beauty. I’m making my tiny stand against it by accepting my face as it is. So I smile whenever I see it.
I was tired of looking at my reflection and seeing a face imprinted with worry, so it was with my tail between my legs that I entered the offices of Rocio X, a plastic surgeon, on December 7, 2023. I had known Rocio socially for a couple of years. I also trust her as a surgeon who helps people after cancer treatment & car accidents. She's not the Beverly Hills type.
Why was I there? I had a very small Dot on the side of my nose where my glasses pad rests. It bothered me to no end. I could see it in my vision, and I was obsessed with it in the magnifying mirror. After trying everything non-invasive for a year, I asked Rocio about removing it with a laser. During our appointment, which was more like a therapy session, I admitted that 2023 had taken a toll on me, and I couldn't get my worried brow to relax.
Of course, Botox was suggested. Botox would 'freeze' my middle worry lines (muscles) so that the other muscles on the outer sides of my face would engage again. The worry muscle was so strong, it overrode the rest of my expressions. Rocio showed me before and after photos of her clients. I noticed the Before's all looked like they had been through Trauma. The After's looked like the same person after a week of rest. That's how subtle Post Traumatic Face Syndrome (I made that up) is.
The magic of Rocio's consultation: the Dot has since disappeared on its own, and I have sought (still seeking) weeks of rest - incrementally - to smooth my PTFS brow. My reflection has altered slightly since I've made time to process the WHY of my trauma. The WHAT of my worry. Perhaps, acceptance is also at work....
Reflection: 1. the throwing back by a body or surface of light, heat, or sound without absorbing it; 2. serious thought or consideration. Can both reflections occur at the same time? When we truly listen to someone in conversation, we reflect (throw back) emotions that show on our faces in silence or in spoken “a-has.” Conversations can be rapid fire, but to truly listen, we have to practice patience and listen to learn rather than to respond. To wait until the end of the other person’s comment then pause, take a breath to create space for reflection (serious thought or consideration), and respond. Each kind of reflection, but one at the time. My New Year’s resolution.
I reflect on time. It’s lying nature. How did the 1980s only last ten years, producing death in waves of AIDS? I ponder in wonder that the disease no longer means a certain death sentence. I watch football and wonder where the cheerleaders are. I remember them distinctly from my youth. They must have migrated to news anchors as we switch the channel. I remember television news with mustaches only. I know I will never have time to read everything I want to read; much less write everything I want to write. But I have seen my child’s children grow and dance, and that is enough for now. Whatever now means. To the morrow then. The past is sticky with unremembered moments.
Sitting in seat 51, on a bus headed south from Madrid to Granada, eyes absorbing the landscape as we pass through Castilla-La Mancha, made famous by a Cervantes character known for creative reflections, entering Andalucía, home for the past thirteen years, land of the olive tree, I think back on a pivotal year, more than most, with familial bonds reinvigorated, despite losing Uncle Bob, and old friendships renovated over mutual love, everybody knowing time slips forever forward, elusive, attempting to slow it down together, to pay more attention, so what could be can be, learning from each other, our perspectives mature for the better, gaining humility through understanding, unimpeded by divisions, in spite of it all, because laughter rules supreme, the load made lighter, as a new year unfolds, ready to start fresh, again, with unbridled power to hope and dream.
I look at my face in the mirror and, thanks to my aging eyes, what I encounter is a blur. As I strain my eyes to focus, my mind has time to wander, engaging with a different kind of reflection. I see my overplucked eyebrows and struggle to recall how I looked before that fateful week in the late-nineties when I set out to tame them through removal. I look at my thinning face and see the face of my aunt – my father’s much older sister – whom I always remember as having a similarly thin, angular face. I imagine I might even look a bit like my father’s mother’s mother, too, who gazes confidently from an old photograph, wearing a dapper velvet hat with an impressive plume feather and an overcoat with fur trim.
But the only physical attributes of my mother I ever saw reflected in myself are my skin color and short eyelashes – the rest are behaviors and inclinations. Several of them sadden me to recognize in myself, born of fear, hurt, and insecurity, which I have worked, often futilely, to shed. Others, I realized only later in life, might not be all that bad: The stubbornness not to give up. The desire to forge my own path. Trying time and again to learn new things and acquire new skills, however far-fetched they might seem. An openness to meeting new people.
I look at my children and wonder what habits of mine they will take on, willingly or not, and hope desperately that it’s mostly the good things.
Sitting in a window in my favorite bar looking out at the numerous older people who are members of our community going about their daily routine, I came to understand the effects of the aging process in its many manifestations and reflected upon what changes I might anticipate as I approached my 85th birthday. Over the course of time, I noticed that there are three phases which these neighbors passed through: the introduction of a cane, then a crutch, a movable multiuse cart and finally giving into a wheelchair. I also noticed that older people are not shunned in our community, indeed in Spain as a whole. We become everyone´s abuela “grandparent”, and respect and unsolicited assistance is offered by all ages.
Now back to me. I have been fortunate to have good genes and have aged very well. I take this as true as it is others who confirm this for me, since I have been without a decent sized mirror to assess this. The only time I can see the changes occurring now that I am 85 is by observing my reflection in a store window. So, you can imagine my dismay when one day I observed the reflection of a women, walking with head thrust forward, her shoulders rounded, trying to balance on the uneven streets with her cane and realized with horror it was I.
There is much to consider from a mere reflection. I had already decided that there was a line I would not cross as I aged. Vanity had a lot to do with this decision. Yes, I could strap my brush to my hand like Renoir working from a wheelchair, or work from my bed with assistants like Matisse, but this didn’t sit well with me, nor did depending upon others for my mobility. So, I have some serious rethinking to do as I march towards 90.
I usually smile at myself in the mirror, much as I would coming face to face with someone else. I joke that having poor eyesight is a blessing at a certain age; I don’t have to see the lines the Anti-Aging Industrial Complex is warning me to fear.
Can I look in a mirror and see a familiar face, one that belongs to someone I’ve seen through the bright times and dark days, without fear or judgment? My refusal to get caught up in the way I look is a point of pride. And perhaps also a form of self-protection.
I like to think I refuse to adopt an actual skin-care routine because I’m truly not concerned about my appearance. But is it the feminist in me (as I claim) or the pretty-enough girl who would never be a beauty feeling relieved at the chance to bow out of the competition? I guess it doesn’t matter.
What if the only thing you knew about your face was the reaction of other people? I assume you’d figure out where you landed on the attractiveness scale. But without the details, would you be free from the desire to change things around? Would the joy you evoked in the eyes of your loved ones be enough?
I think we want to be beautiful because we want to be loved. Isn’t that at the root of most of our desires and behaviors? I live in a world that is obsessed with youth and beauty. I’m making my tiny stand against it by accepting my face as it is. So I smile whenever I see it.
I was tired of looking at my reflection and seeing a face imprinted with worry, so it was with my tail between my legs that I entered the offices of Rocio X, a plastic surgeon, on December 7, 2023. I had known Rocio socially for a couple of years. I also trust her as a surgeon who helps people after cancer treatment & car accidents. She's not the Beverly Hills type.
Why was I there? I had a very small Dot on the side of my nose where my glasses pad rests. It bothered me to no end. I could see it in my vision, and I was obsessed with it in the magnifying mirror. After trying everything non-invasive for a year, I asked Rocio about removing it with a laser. During our appointment, which was more like a therapy session, I admitted that 2023 had taken a toll on me, and I couldn't get my worried brow to relax.
Of course, Botox was suggested. Botox would 'freeze' my middle worry lines (muscles) so that the other muscles on the outer sides of my face would engage again. The worry muscle was so strong, it overrode the rest of my expressions. Rocio showed me before and after photos of her clients. I noticed the Before's all looked like they had been through Trauma. The After's looked like the same person after a week of rest. That's how subtle Post Traumatic Face Syndrome (I made that up) is.
The magic of Rocio's consultation: the Dot has since disappeared on its own, and I have sought (still seeking) weeks of rest - incrementally - to smooth my PTFS brow. My reflection has altered slightly since I've made time to process the WHY of my trauma. The WHAT of my worry. Perhaps, acceptance is also at work....
Reflection: 1. the throwing back by a body or surface of light, heat, or sound without absorbing it; 2. serious thought or consideration. Can both reflections occur at the same time? When we truly listen to someone in conversation, we reflect (throw back) emotions that show on our faces in silence or in spoken “a-has.” Conversations can be rapid fire, but to truly listen, we have to practice patience and listen to learn rather than to respond. To wait until the end of the other person’s comment then pause, take a breath to create space for reflection (serious thought or consideration), and respond. Each kind of reflection, but one at the time. My New Year’s resolution.
I reflect on time. It’s lying nature. How did the 1980s only last ten years, producing death in waves of AIDS? I ponder in wonder that the disease no longer means a certain death sentence. I watch football and wonder where the cheerleaders are. I remember them distinctly from my youth. They must have migrated to news anchors as we switch the channel. I remember television news with mustaches only. I know I will never have time to read everything I want to read; much less write everything I want to write. But I have seen my child’s children grow and dance, and that is enough for now. Whatever now means. To the morrow then. The past is sticky with unremembered moments.
Sitting in seat 51, on a bus headed south from Madrid to Granada, eyes absorbing the landscape as we pass through Castilla-La Mancha, made famous by a Cervantes character known for creative reflections, entering Andalucía, home for the past thirteen years, land of the olive tree, I think back on a pivotal year, more than most, with familial bonds reinvigorated, despite losing Uncle Bob, and old friendships renovated over mutual love, everybody knowing time slips forever forward, elusive, attempting to slow it down together, to pay more attention, so what could be can be, learning from each other, our perspectives mature for the better, gaining humility through understanding, unimpeded by divisions, in spite of it all, because laughter rules supreme, the load made lighter, as a new year unfolds, ready to start fresh, again, with unbridled power to hope and dream.
I look at my face in the mirror and, thanks to my aging eyes, what I encounter is a blur. As I strain my eyes to focus, my mind has time to wander, engaging with a different kind of reflection. I see my overplucked eyebrows and struggle to recall how I looked before that fateful week in the late-nineties when I set out to tame them through removal. I look at my thinning face and see the face of my aunt – my father’s much older sister – whom I always remember as having a similarly thin, angular face. I imagine I might even look a bit like my father’s mother’s mother, too, who gazes confidently from an old photograph, wearing a dapper velvet hat with an impressive plume feather and an overcoat with fur trim.
But the only physical attributes of my mother I ever saw reflected in myself are my skin color and short eyelashes – the rest are behaviors and inclinations. Several of them sadden me to recognize in myself, born of fear, hurt, and insecurity, which I have worked, often futilely, to shed. Others, I realized only later in life, might not be all that bad: The stubbornness not to give up. The desire to forge my own path. Trying time and again to learn new things and acquire new skills, however far-fetched they might seem. An openness to meeting new people.
I look at my children and wonder what habits of mine they will take on, willingly or not, and hope desperately that it’s mostly the good things.
Sitting in a window in my favorite bar looking out at the numerous older people who are members of our community going about their daily routine, I came to understand the effects of the aging process in its many manifestations and reflected upon what changes I might anticipate as I approached my 85th birthday. Over the course of time, I noticed that there are three phases which these neighbors passed through: the introduction of a cane, then a crutch, a movable multiuse cart and finally giving into a wheelchair. I also noticed that older people are not shunned in our community, indeed in Spain as a whole. We become everyone´s abuela “grandparent”, and respect and unsolicited assistance is offered by all ages.
Now back to me. I have been fortunate to have good genes and have aged very well. I take this as true as it is others who confirm this for me, since I have been without a decent sized mirror to assess this. The only time I can see the changes occurring now that I am 85 is by observing my reflection in a store window. So, you can imagine my dismay when one day I observed the reflection of a women, walking with head thrust forward, her shoulders rounded, trying to balance on the uneven streets with her cane and realized with horror it was I.
There is much to consider from a mere reflection. I had already decided that there was a line I would not cross as I aged. Vanity had a lot to do with this decision. Yes, I could strap my brush to my hand like Renoir working from a wheelchair, or work from my bed with assistants like Matisse, but this didn’t sit well with me, nor did depending upon others for my mobility. So, I have some serious rethinking to do as I march towards 90.