Light Is The Enemy of Beauty

 

So a bunch of my friends wanted to go to the Winter Party in South Beach. Beach party from noon to six. “Are you coming?” I was like, “NO. It’s in the daytime. Like I’m going to go to a party at NOON when the sun’s the brightest.”

I’m telling you, Light is the enemy. There’s a reason Barbara Walters is shot through cheesecloth–she doesn’t do beach scenes.

I know I’ve got a good body but it’s a constant competition because somebody will have a pec a millimeter bigger or an ab a centimeter sharper. I swear to God, that party’s on a runway not a beach.

Anyway, I constantly get questioned about my age. Everything’s fine until they look closer and ask me, “How old are you?”

Is there an uglier question you could ask?

They’ve gotta move you into a box. You know, 18 to 34, 35 to 49, 50 to DEATH. Why can’t I be judged by the content of my character rather than the wrinkles around my eyes?

When I “Get the question” sometimes I’ll get angry and say, “what’s it to you?” Other times I laugh it off. I should be expecting it and yet I don’t prepare myself for it. Damn, I gotta come up with some kind of canned laughter.

I will not go anywhere unless the lighting’s good. If I go to a restaurant, I’ll look to see which section has the lowest lighting. If I’m asked to pick the place, I’m like, “Oh, the food sucks but there’s candles!”

No, really.

Sometimes I purposefully try not to smile. And if somebody makes me laugh, it’s all over. The crow’s feet smacks me. And them. Expressionless, I look like Dorian Gray. When I smile, not so much. The wrinkles take the shape of a 5 and a 0. As in 50!

Oi vey.

You know what I can’t stand? When somebody I’m hitting on says, “I hope I look as good as you do when I’m you’re age.” Talk about a back-handed compliment.

You look so good….for your age.

What the hell does that mean–I “look good for my age!” FOR MY AGE. I feel like saying, “Gee, thanks, you look short for your age.” What the hell does age have to do anything with it? You either look good or you don’t.

I try to change the subject. When that doesn’t work I’ll say, “I’m Over 40.” But then they want an exact number, and I’m like do you want the day and time, too? I swear they look at me like I got egg timers in my eyes.

And the sand ain’t going up.

I wanna have fun while I’m this side of the dirt. Fact is I know I can’t accept my age. A lot of it is because I DON’T look my age . It’d be easier to accept it if I was fat, balding and as wrinkly as I look after a 10-minute shower. But I don’t. I’m cursed with looking younger than I am. Yes, cursed, cuz if I looked my age I wouldn’t have a choice, and choice is the curse. No choice leads to acceptance, no?

So, as long as I can get away with looking younger I’ll never accept my age. Thought: Why are older straight men thought to be “distinguished?” Please. Straight men get license to be dogs. The first and only time I feel jealous of straight guys!