I am not above a selfie, as my Instagram account will prove. For every picture that I post, I take at least 20 others, half of which I then quietly upload to the cloud, where they’re lost in the shuffle of hundreds, if not thousands, of places and things far more interesting than my own face.
I never thought those selfies would serve a purpose, but it turns out that they will. A few months ago, my sister-in-law suggested that I make my nephews a lift-the-flap book that takes them on a trip around the world in search of yours truly. Theoretically, this project should require only one photo of me and a few others of animals and statues serving as decoys. (Anyone familiar with children’s books knows that the person or thing in question doesn’t make an appearance until the final page.) But my sister-in-law thought that this story would be more fun if the answer was yes throughout the book:
Yes, Chuchie is learning to surf in sunny Indonesia!
Yes, Chuchie is taking the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower!
Yes, Chuchie is riding a camel in a parking lot of Morocco!
It’s exactly the sort of community-endorsed narcissism that I could get behind. I started that project before you can say “beaches of Old Dubrovnik.”
What should have been a happy trip down memory lane turned into a bit of a buzzkill. As I collected the photos from near and far, I couldn’t help but notice how much things have changed over the past few years. I’m not talking about all the wonderful things that happened in my life, like moving to Europe, falling in love, or making new friends. I’m talking about something a little more superficial: my face.
The past few years may have been fun, but they have not been kind. As I looked at photos from just 18 months ago, I hardly recognized myself. Who is that woman with the long straight hair, completely free of gray? Who is that lady with clear, unwrinkled skin? She has the body of an aerialist and the wardrobe of a publicist and the beauty budget of a micro-influencer. I’d like to know her secret!
[cincopa AEPAuS-rndPB]
I do realise that her secret can be any number of things: lighting, resolution, framing, a healthy use of the “delete” key. More likely than not, it involves a pair of oversized sunglasses and a professional blowout. Smoke and mirrors, filters and lens – whatever you want to call it, there’s a little bit of that going on for sure.
But I also can’t deny that things have changed. I look different now. My skin has aged, my hair has thinned, and parts of me have begun to sag.
Maybe you don’t see it. Year over year, I might look more or less the same to you. But not to me – and not, by the way, to the facial recognition software used by Google Photos, which registers me as two different people midway through 2017. I understand that could be a glitch caused by my growing collection of hats. But it could also just be my face, getting older. Objectively speaking, I understand the confusion. I can see it with my own eyes.
For the record, I’m not saying that I look terrible now. I’m just saying that I think I looked better before – which is probably something that most women can understand. I’m hardly the only one to reflect fondly on the past and wish I enjoyed it more at the time. Over the years, a lot of people have warned me that no one ever realizes how beautiful they were until they look back at old photos. I guess that applies to me – except the photos in question were taken 18 months ago, as opposed to 18 years. For me, the passage of time and waning of beauty can be measured in days, not decades.
If this transition had happened more gradually and manifested itself a bit later – say in my 70s – I think I could accept the changes with grace and dignity. But I am only 35 and so I refuse to go quietly. I am secretly hoping for a comeback, calculating hair regrowth rates and workout regimens and dietary supplements to determine, realistically speaking, how much ground I can hope to regain by 40. I’ve committed to 2500mg of collagen, eight hours of sleep, and two liters of water per day. I’ve switched to boar-bristle hair brushes and silk pillow cases and paraben-free everything. I cut back on alcohol and try to eat sensibly. We’ll see.
Another thing I’ve heard over the years is that middle age is a brunette’s revenge. I would like to put that theory to the test.
In a way, it’s good that I’m here in Finland where no one knew me before – before the sunspots appeared and the failed digital rebonding wreaked havoc on my hair, and my under-eye bags grew to the size of dinner plates. Before I turned 33, in other words. It’s good that no one has the occasion to pass me on the street and say, “I didn’t even recognize you!” I used to take that line as a compliment, as any woman who went through an extra-long awkward phase would do. But now, not so much. I don’t quite recognize myself either.
All this, I know, makes me sound extraordinarily vain. I won’t deny that I am. I have always been superficial and I make no apologies about it. But I’m more than that, too.
When I look at these pictures, I’m not just mourning the loss of my looks. I’m scared about the passage of time. The real problem isn’t that I’m getting ugly – it’s that I’m getting old. And that’s not a matter of vanity.
These days, I don’t just see my age – I hear it. Every time I stoop down to take a pot from the bottom shelf or walk down a flight of steps, my knees crack and pop. My feet click and my back snaps and on the rare occasion I lift my leg over 90 degrees, you can hear the sound of bone-on-bone violence in my hip joints. Fifteen years of ballet, followed by fifteen years of distance running has left its mark. My body may still look young, but it sounds like it is made of gravel.
And it is failing too. Last week, in a fit of boredom, I wandered into a boot camp fitness class at the gym. The instructor only spoke Finnish, but I understood her perfectly when she said, “You will feel this in the morning.” I certainly did – though not in my arms and shoulders as you might expect after 30 straight minutes of weight training. Instead, I couldn’t put my heel on the ground, not even for a second, without feeling a burning hot pain. Evidently, somewhere in between the jumping squats and alternating lunges, I crushed the fatty tissue in my foot – or at least that’s what the internet will have me believe. Regardless, I couldn’t walk for four days.
And this is what really scares me when I look at photos that show how quickly I am aging. It’s not just the brittle hair and sunspots that give me pause – it’s all the things I know are happening beneath the surface: the wearing away of my meniscus in my joints, the leeching of calcium from my bones, the slow drip of collagen from my face. Suddenly, I am aware of how fragile the body is and how quickly it can fail. It took me less than half an hour to injure something that, as of last week, I didn’t even know existed. I don’t even want to think about disease – which needs no invitation at all to strike.
So when I look at the selfies from years past, I’m not just sad about what’s been lost, I’m worried about what’s to come. I’m afraid I’ll lose my health just as suddenly as I did a foot of hair a year ago – that one day I’ll wake up with it and by nightfall it will be gone forever. There’s no filter in the world that can hide a problem like that.
I’m 38 and I feel the exact same fear you have. Like you, years of dance and running, as well as hip injuries and neck injuries have left my muscles stiff and my bones crackling with every move I make. I’m too young to be this fragile. Each day I see my face and my body morphing more and more into my own mother’s shape. I’ve had two friends in perfect health be diagnosed and die from brain cancer this year. One of them was 45 years old. Her death has affected me more than any other I’ve ever experienced. I’m trying to cope with the realization of the “breathtaking brevity of life” as I once read and it’s not a quick adjustment. I wish I had some words of encouragement. I try to think of my friend, of the 3 children, and the husband, and the life that she left behind and I try to be more grateful for my life and the life of my daughter…Love your blog. Look forward to your post each week.
Hi. I’m afraid I don’t have any words of wisdom for you either. But, like me, I doubt you’re really looking for any. They never help much anyway. Disease, illness, injury.- they’re inevitable and often times unfair. I too try to make the most of the time I have and live as fully as I can. When I’m laid up for a few days, it feels like torture – which really makes me wonder how I’ll cope when something serious happens. Hopefully that will be a long time coming, but I’m sure you know better than anyone there are no guarantees and there are no warnings. I’m sorry – sincerely – for the loss of your friends.
Botox and fillers (I started at 35) ! I’m serious! I just turned 50 and no one believes my age. Though…the hormone changes are beginning to leave a mark no amount of fiddling with can change.
As you know I run daily…at my advanced age.
Ageing is a privilege! Enjoy it all. You’re gorgeous.!
You’re right – I can’t believe you’re 50. Your running routes alone made me think you were a much younger woman! Good for you :) I told someone earlier today that if I can’t age well, I at least hope that I can age rich. Botox here I come… eventually.
I dunno about middle age being a brunette’s revenge; more like a final, massive slap in the chops! Grey roots and brown hair do not mix at all well.
Spot on about the body made of gravel thing though. A lifetime of running and dancing has rendered my joints noisier – and stiffer, and more painful – than I could possibly have imagined in my twenties. And I thought I was doing a good thing for my body! As I see it, there are two options: embrace or go down fighting. Which one do I choose? Depends what day it is….
It does depend on what day it is! Sometimes it seems like a waste of time to try – but then I tend to feel better when I do. For now, I’m going to make an effort. Just a few years ago, I scoffed at the idea of botox. Now, after two people have sung its praises after this post, I’m reconsidering my position.
Anyway – blessings to your joints. I don’t know what you do for exercise now, but I recently started cycling/spin classes. It’s not the same high as running, but it works just the same and it’s a lot easier on the joints. Bonus: the music is so loud you can’t hear your own knees :)
sunscreen. for heaven’s sake, sunscreen.
and as we get older our makeup should become more subtle, not stronger. Your earlier photos show a light pink lipgloss, the newer ones, a harsher red.
When in doubt, always remember what Bette Davis and Lucille Ball looked like when they started drawing on lips where no lips ever were. Scaree…
And grey hair is no big deal. Don’t like it, color it out. Or live with it. I suspect you’re the only one who’ll notice it anyway.
Botox, frankly, scares me. I”ve seen what happens to women when they try for too much, or when the entire process goes to hell on them.
You’re a pretty lady just as you are. At this stage, the only one complaining, is you. =)
Well, I like the lipstick. I’ve actually been wearing it consistently since my late-twenties – so it’s a bit of a signature. But you’re right that I picked all very natural looking photos as the “before” images… that’s interesting. Something to think about as I’m putting on my day lotion and sunhat.
Pet peeve. Why are men “allowed” to age but women are “scared” of the process? You are an intelligent, vibrant, charming person. This does not change with the level of collagen in your face. Yes, heath, fitness, flexibility, gratitude. As for the rest, pfffft. Own it. Tell the world, I am here. This is what 35, 45, 55 looks like. Deal with it. $0.02
that’s a good $0.02
for once, I don’t know if this problem is society’s doing. I mean, yes – the standards of beauty and aging are there and unattainable as ever, but it’s really not about that. I honestly just don’t FEEL great about the way I look… and I don’t feel great, period. allowing your face to age gracefully is mind over matter… the failing joints, not so much. but, it is what it is. I’ll adjust.
I’m about to turn 28, but I feel your pain! I’m pale and burn easily, a thing I didn’t take seriously enough until now. I never drink enough water, and I know that fact will haunt me one day… As for my joints? They’ve always been a mess – my hips sound like popcorn or bubble wrap every morning.
If this is all just at 28…. what the hell will it feel like at 40? 50? 60?
well, I’m well on my way to 40… so I’ll let you know. :) until then, drink up and sleep well.