"TWEAKMENTS" OR FREAKMENTS

I have bought a lot of books I’ve never read. Someday, I tell myself. If only I’d stop placing holds on books at the public library. I tend to have unread newspaper articles that linger as well, less now that I’ve stopped forking over $12 Canadian for the Sunday New York Times. It’s become a treat instead of a habit. My coffee table is much less cluttered.

 

Even so, I came across an article in my desk drawer yesterday. It’s from August 19, 2021. I’d never read it, but I hung onto it anyway—a tempting read; one that might lead to trouble. It’s called, “Lifted Necks, and Other Upgrades for Guys.” Basically, it’s about men having work done to “improve” their looks. I finally read it this morning.

 

Botox. Fillers for cheeks and jawline. Em-Sculpt (to tone abs). Laser treatments to remove sunspots. Buttock lifts. Breast reduction for men. A nose raise with fillers. Eyelid surgery. Liposuction. Neck tightening. 

 

It’s all there. 

 

What surprised me most was the ages of the men interviewed in the article. I actually laughed when I read about a 27-year-old having “Botox as a preventive.” What?! What will this guy be doing when he hits my age, 61? 

 

Most of the article was not at all funny. I should readily dismiss the entire topic. I should take into account the professions of several of these guys—a personal trainer, a social media influencer, a public relations executive. Their appearance is part of their brand. I should also think about that woman who was nicknamed Catwoman for having too much work done. As well, I can conjure up several celebrities who look like they went too far. My L’Oréal eye cream may not be doing any good but at least it’s not doing damage.

 

Still, I actually read with interest. Like I said, tempting. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was 17. I have body dysmorphia which causes me to obsess over perceived imperfections. The first body part I ever wanted altered was my elbows. I was probably twelve. I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that elbows, when the arm is fully extended, are ugly on everyone. Seriously. They’re just a weird body part. What would one do if they received an elbow compliment? You’re mocking me, right?

 

One common behaviour of people with eating disorders is body checking. Not the hockey move but the repeated looking in mirrors and the reflections in windows. It’s about fear, not vanity. It arises from, How bad do I look? rather than, How good do I look?  For more than a decade—probably much more—I’ve also been body checking by looking at other men’s bellies. I basically notice every single one. I compare them to mine. It’s my own theory of relativity. In relation to other men, how bad is my stomach? Guys without any gut protruding over the waistline of their pants make me panic. They remind me I’m not good enough. Guys with “beer bellies” calm me. I know I’m somewhere in between and, if I could ever be objective, I might be able to admit my stomach doesn’t protrude. 

 

Or does it? Cue panic once again.

 

Most of the procedures mentioned in the article are not of interest to me. Even as messed up as I am about my looks, I won’t become a plastic surgeon’s cash cow. I’m not one for invasive procedures. Hell, I have a requisition for bloodwork that’s been sitting on my desk for a month now. It takes a perfect kind of day, including a ton of self-talk, to get me to go for a blood test. I have a severe needle phobia. It’s a thing: trypanophobia. It’s listed in my medical file. One of my medical providers even typed on the requisition form (not at my request): “Please ensure accuracy. Patient has a needle phobia and we do not want to risk repeated lab visits.” Amen. 

 

Botox involves needles. Egad. How would I handle that? Maybe the wrinkles on my forehead and the sags under my eyes aren’t so bad.

 

When people talk about plastic surgery, they talk about going “under the knife.” It probably comes as no surprise knives freak me out, too. Add on the fact that a needle probably has to be administered first for a local or general anesthetic. (I’m having a hard time typing these sentences. My wrists are hurting. I am not kidding. Yes, I am a sad case. I know this.)

 

I will not be making any appointments this week for what the article alternatingly referred to as “tweakments,” a “cosmetic refresh,” or “wellness routines.” Words like torture, horror and extreme trauma do not appear in the article. Talk about skewed reporting!

 

I will admit that a couple of procedures have some appeal: the butt lift and whatever is required to avoid what one man in the article called “extreme turkey neck.” Yes, I don’t want to be Turtleneck Guy. Not in the summer when it gets above 30°C. 

 

But not for now. Maybe when I have to go under for a root canal. Let there be a single anesthetic as the oral surgeon and plastic surgeon work in tandem. 

 

For some reason, I can’t throw away the article. It’s going back in the drawer. I’ve read it, but I may want to read it again as sagginess becomes more of my reality. Who knows what may happen?...Someday.

 

 

 

 

 

  

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME

So, yeah, this aging thing has been on my mind lately. Last week I contemplated a field trip to Florida’s Fountain of Youth, but Florida’s off my travel list these days (one word: “GAY!”) and the only thing worse than looking young and foolish is being old and foolish. No splash of holy water is going to reduce the vestiges of age. 

 

This week’s post continues of the notion of aging denialism. Sigh. Maybe I should have renamed my blog, Ice Cream Gayly. Writing, and especially researching, would be so much more fun.

 

What I’d meant to write about last week before tangents took over was how fifty-somethings I know, myself included, are trying to appear young to stay in the game in terms of our careers. 

 

I recently FaceTimed a friend from college who is now a principal in an architecture firm in Los Angeles. She switched firms during the pandemic and, during her first year, only met colleagues once in person. As I observed when I stayed with her for a few days in January, the job continues to be mostly a work from home experience, her days filled with Zoom and phone meetings that seem to go on and on. (My friend has always been intense about all aspects of her life.) I wondered how she was connecting. She said everything was highly satisfying which was a highly unusual stance as I’ve listened to her rant ad nauseum about the office dynamics in every firm she’s worked at during the past thirty-five years. Maybe working from home was offering some necessary space and distance. 

 

When she talked about her team, she mentioned that all of them are under thirty. “Can you relate?” I asked.

 

“Of course,” she said. “We click.” But then there was a pause. “You know, when I was twenty-eight, I used to think all my bosses were so old, but they were the age I am now.” Another pause. Wait for it…Recalculating…“Do you think they thing I’m old? Come to think of it, their weekends sound so different than mine. More, um, fun. And they do things together. I don’t get invited.”

 

Oh, dear. The highly satisfying stance was taking a hit. Her face showed some extra lines—creases, furls. I needed to divert a freefall. I brought up American politics. My turn to suffer. We’re completely on the same team, but she argues as though I’m not. (Intense, I said.) The talk lasted another hour—all politics, no more mention of work. I saved her but not myself.

 

Speaking of myself, I attended a writers’ conference in Seattle in September. I have three novels I’m desperate to get published and I haven’t been able to stand out in what they call the slush pile which is the hundreds of emails agents get every month, if not week, from writers seeking representation, hoping to see one of their books at Barnes and Noble, a needle in a haystack of books by Stephen King, Colleen Hoover and that dang James Patterson who comes up with a new book as often at The New York Times publishes another issue of its newspaper. Jeez, James. Take a vacation. Maybe learn an instrument and join Stephen King’s band, a group of writers. Pick the hardest instrument, James. Spend two years on violin, then give up and take up the oboe. You’ll need to practice plenty to get up to snuff. 

 

Okay, tangent. Sorry.

The conference. I put big pressure on myself. Agents would be sitting through four-minute pitches from all of us slush pile foragers. I needed to stand out. I needed them to believe they could make money off me…a ten percent cut from hundreds of thousands of copies of my bestseller which would eventually become a hit streaming series. (How many seasons of The Handmaid’s Tale can they milk?) I needed agents to know I have a whole career ahead of me. Many, many more books. Much, much more money. Let other slush pile writers begin wishing I took up bagpipes to perform instrumental duets with James Patterson.

I theorized that one way to convey to agents I needed to be scooped up was to give them the impression that I was much younger than I am. Looong career. No arthritis, Metamucil or Matlock marathons in lieu of writing for decades to come.

It was clear that applying a Fresh Lotus Youth Preserve Rescue Mask and then slathering my face with glycolic acid, retinol serum, Hyaluronic Marine Hydration Booster and Wrinkle Expert 55+ Moisturizer during the week of the conference would make me poorer, not younger. (I’m feeling a tad defensive over the word choice of “Youth Preserve Rescue,” as if my face needs emergency intervention. But then, maybe it does. That product is shaming me!) My best shot from the list of 2023’s best anti-aging scams products was the Peter Thomas Roth Instant FIRMx Temporary Eye Tightener, but that got me worried. 

Temporary eye tightening?!

I might not be able to blink or, worse, sleep. Would an agent interrupt my pitch, shield their face with a raised arm and yell, “Stop staring at me!” A memorable pitch but no deal. Call it a hunch. 

I opted for a hair appointment. Melanie, my foul-mouthed but expert stylist, needed to work a miracle. A magic potion perhaps: foil, white goop and two and a half hours of hocus pocus. Poof! Blond highlights plus gray sideburns painted away. A decade younger (or a couple years?) without losing eye function. 

I pitched. Two out of three agents asked for more. Alas, one has followed up with a rejection and the other seems to have ghosted me. Maybe the requests were about politeness, a pity play for the old man with the bad dye job and eyes in dire need of tightening.

I’m not the only one praying a fresh coat of paint offers a new improved look. Another friend in his fifties is looking for a new job. He’s a star in his field, his talents obvious in just a five-minute chat about his profession. Still, the interviews have been fewer this time around and younger, less experienced people are filling the positions. Experience is an asset until it’s an extra financial cost. He’s lopped off the first decade from his résumé. He’s also gotten a younger cut from his stylist, colored his mustache and tried to go more pepper than salt with Just for Men’s Grey Reducing Shampoo. To my eyes, it’s working. Maybe he can monetize his transformation as a TikTok influencer. It’s apparently a viable career for young ’uns.

Just say no!

An acquaintance who owns a business in which attracting new clients is always a pressing concern is getting a facial procedure today. I’m not sure the specifics. She’s discreet about these things and assures me it has nothing to do with exploding lips. (Seriously, can we please have an intervention for every woman seeking puffy lips? It’s unnatural, unflattering and maybe a little bit scary. I’ve told my friends to do something similar when my highlights stop making me look Swedish and start messaging Old Man Being Scammed by Moneygrubbing Salon.)

Someone else my age is getting a whole set of dentures this week. Again, I don’t know the specifics, but just the mention gets me fretting about my smile. 

Aging teeth can pull focus from all that other age-reducing work. I whitened mine for the first time the day before my writers’ conference. (No difference.) 

I’ve had great teeth my whole life but, after I hit fifty, pesky—and, for me, traumatic—work became the norm. I’ve fractured teeth on both sides of my mouth. When I despairingly asked my dentist what was going on, he gently talked to me about “wear and tear.” I’m basically an old set of tires, treads worn down, ready to be chucked in a junkyard or converted to an earthship in New Mexico. 

I remind myself there are plenty of old tires still rolling along. Misery loves that. Still, all I want to do is kick and scream…burn some rubber. I haven’t tantrummed since I was seven. It’s my easiest shot at appearing younger, but that’s not the look I’m going for. 

Guess I’ll have to hit the drugstore and splurge on a face mask. Perhaps not the Youth Preserve Rescue one. Maybe there’s a Batman one in the back I can get at a discount. We older shoppers are known to be savvier. 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

      

THE NUMBERS GAME

Last October, I changed this blog’s name to “Aging Gayly.” I realized the other day that I haven’t written anything since then that has been directly about getting older although references to Barry White, Karen Carpenter, Flip Wilson and Bette Midler may be dead giveaways. I don’t think I ever really left the ’70s. 

 

Sigh. Keep going...

keep going.

There are reminders that I’m no spring chicken everywhere. One of the worst comes when I’m filling out something online, perhaps purchasing an airline ticket, and I have to enter my date of birth. For “convenience,” the numbers for month, day and year are scroll-down options. It takes a helluva lot of scrolling to get to my year. Entering the four digits would be both quicker and less humbling.  

 

It's hard to believe I once struggled with accepting the term, middle-aged. It made me cringe. It brought to mind synonyms from my very own personalized thesaurus: passé, irrelevant, recalcitrant, rotting. Hello, regular references to nostalgia: answering machines, Blockbusters, “Designing Women,” Tang, Milli Vanilli, magazine subscriptions.

 

“Middle-aged” is way, way back in the rearview mirror unless I’m kidding myself into thinking I’m going to live to 116 (Go, science!). Do I really want to be that guy they wheel into the nursing home dining room, sitting deaf and oblivious in a wheelchair as they set a birthday cake in front of me when I haven’t eaten solids in a decade and gathering three or four staff members for a photo no one wants, then clapping as they pretend I’m the one who blew out the one candle they lit? I’d probably nod off before they even tracked down Jerry the custodian to borrow his lighter.

 

Yeah. There could be darker times ahead. 

 

I’m thankful I’m still spry and aware enough to want to spit at anyone who puts “spry” and my name in the same sentence. Soon enough, I’ll be able to look people in the eye, say the f-word and have people think it’s cute. Hilarious even. When I glare and repeat the f-word, they’ll only laugh harder. 

 

But I keep telling myself that’s far away. Middle-aged is gone but lopping off “middle” and just being aged doesn’t seem the right fit either. I continue to jog and ride my bike…a regular bike with no “e” in front of it. Then I’m reminded my bike just hit its thirtieth anniversary. I’m old-ish with old things. I try not to get hung up on that. I frequently pass people younger than my bike. Spry, indeed!

 

I’d like to believe I’m a generation away (or more, fingers crossed) from regularly reading obituaries and having funerals be my social scene. (“Finger sandwiches? Sheesh. They had a whole pasta bar at Lou’s.”) I hope to never be that person in line at a café who turns to a stranger and says, “All my friends are dead.” Let “good morning” roll off the tongue instead or, better yet, let there be no f-ing line. 

 

My closest friend and I have talked about a time when we’ll text each other every morning, the hello or “Damn. Outta prunes. Again” serving as a means of checking in on one another, talk of our lack of constipation a more polite message than, “You’re not dead, are you?” We don’t text much as of now. Mostly, it’s out-dueling one another to announce a dead celebrity. Ed Asner. Betty White. Tina Turner. People I “loved” inasmuch as you can adore a person you never met who nonetheless brought joy. It’s always a macabre exchange, each of us offering something dignified and mentioning a favorite role/show/song. It will only become more macabre when more of the famous dead people are in our same decade or, gasp, the one that comes after us. Live long and prosper, Rob Lowe, Lisa Kudrow and Debbie Gibson. Each of you looks far younger than your years. Let that stand…for you and, ahem, for me, too.

 

Age is just a number, they say, but my how it’s getting big. “F that.” [Insert laughtrack. (Yep. I still remember what that is.)]