Every woman over the age of 30 remembers the first time a hot young guy rang up her sale, handed her the receipt and package and said “thank you, ma’am.”  It’s a brutal ego crushing moment in a young woman’s life.  No more a wink and a smile.  Just a polite you-remind-me-of-my-mother-do-you-need-help-carrying-this-to-your-car thank you and goodbye. Hope you make it home to your rocking chair before you fall asleep.  Ma’am.

It was a year or so ago that I had another rude awakening.  I was headed into an office store.  I approached the door at the same time as a woman about my age – “say” 34.  It was clear that if we kept up the same pace we would arrive at the door at the same time.  It was an automatic door, no need for her to open it for me.  Instead, she stopped and waved her hand for me to go first.  It wasn’t that courteous motion that chilled me to my bones, it was the look on her face.  It was clear from the sweet smile and somewhat deferential nod of her head that she was acting in this respectful way because I was older, and she was well taught to respect her elders.   Bummer for me, huh?  I had to recalculate the proximity of our ages and realized, nope, not 34 on this end.

I’ve always been concerned about my appearance.  I think it’s because I was such a scrawny little thing when I was small, and by middle school I had a “prominent” nose and a pair of glasses that did not make me first on the list of girls that boys had crushes on and yes, that was important to me.   I went by nicknames such as “The Board” and even my good friends would draw pictures of my nose on the frosted bus windows.  Well, I showed them eventually, by senior year in high school I was most decidedly not a board, and my nose, I like to think, has a patrician quality to it.  Mom also told me when I got old it would make me look younger, that women with tiny noses end up looking squished and wrinkly.  If she’s any example, I would say that’s true. 

Recently I reconnected with an old high school buddy and before we met in person (after 30 some years) he said “Now, don’t be worried about how you LOOK.”  This spoken with the knowing tone of a man who raised three daughters and probably spent much time waiting for the bathroom.  You’d think he’d know that my response would be what it was.   I only laughed and said “too late!”  I was already trying to figure out what to wear that would make me look like the girl least likely to have changed in 30 years.

My Mom always makes me feel better.  She was trailing behind me one day and said “You know, Mary, you don’t look fat.  You just look like a lotta woman!  Well proportioned…”  Ya gotta love that, really.  I know Al does, as he just won’t stop bringing ice cream into the house.

But lately, it’s getting rougher to look into the mirror.  Had a chat with an old friend about this and she agreed, and she’s five years younger and a very accomplished physical therapist, but always prides herself on being young at heart.  I admitted I didn’t like it at all and she agreed.  I have never dreaded actually getting old, but I want to look young forever.  In my own words: “Too late!”  I’ve turned a corner between getting away with being five years younger and just melting into tip number 5 for women over 50 “don’t let your makeup settle in to your wrinkles.”

It’s been very acute lately.  Fortunately the cosmos has been helping me out just this past week.  First,  I see a recent news article about Beth Weems Pirtle, a 74 year old woman who won the senior division of the American Dreams Pageant.  I have several thoughts on that.  Number one is you go girl!  Number two is my God I hope I get over this vanity business before I’m 74.  At the same time I’m looking at her eye makeup and wondering if she got her eyeliner tatooed on so she doesn’t have to mess with it anymore.  It was somewhat comforting to know that I have a deep spiritual core and that this will pass with a little time and effort.  I am glad I wasn’t a total beauty queen, but just attractive enough – it must really be a chore to watch the societal norm of beautfy fade away into your mirror.  Don’t even get me started on these toddler pageants.

Next thing you know, I get an email from my sister’s spouse, who rarely forwards anything to me, but who is a devout man.  He must have heard my gnashing of teeth across the miles.  It was just a nice email about beauty, from out of the blue:

You know, I have worked with the geriatric set my whole career.  I have never ever considered their physical beauty, only their countenance.  From them I have gained wisdom beyond what any book could provide me about how to handle aging, illness and death itself.  I have learned that a woman who remains beautiful even at 80 can just as easily be a racist.  That man still handsome at 85 can be a total jerk to his family.  I have learned that smiling eyes and a good sense of humor make anyone’s face light up.  You’d think I’d get this message and quit looking in the mirror, wouldn’t you?  After all, I can still smile with the best of ’em, and that was always my ace in the beauty hole, so I hear.

The final thing that happened just today was the Sunday comic today, For Better of For Worse, by Lynn Johnston.   Lynn did it again, spoke to my heart.  There is Elly, the mom, looking in the mirror, bemoaning her wrinkles, stating exactly what I’ve been thinking all week:  

My boys are all grown up now, but I’ll still hold that thought.  I wish it didn’t matter.  I wish I didn’t care.  I like to think that I don’t have to move my beauty from my face to my heart.  I like to think it’s been there all along.   On the other hand, I work with a lot of ladies who still wear their makeup every day.  The doctors in the hospitals call it the “positive makeup sign” – no matter how ill or old some women are, when a glam girl starts putting on her makeup again they know she’s turned a corner. 

As for me, I always can stir up a giggle when one of my little old ladies apologizes because she has to put her lipstick on before we walk in the hallway. I know just what she’s saying.  I simply pull out my lipstick tube from my scrubs pocket, hold it up and say:

 “Hey, I understand. They’ll have to pry the lipstick out of my cold dead hands!”