Age Disgracefully

Who came up with the idea that we’re supposed to age gracefully?

I suspect it started in a conference room full of advertising people who discovered an extraordinary amount of money to be made by convincing us that getting older was a problem.

Wrinkles needed cream. Gray hair needed dye. Age spots needed correcting and sagging required lifting. Thinning hair needed thickening. And anything that couldn’t be lifted, firmed, plumped or covered could apparently be injected.

It was brilliant.

There was far more money in selling women’s and men’s products to prevent aging than there ever would have been in selling us a tonic, so we didn’t give a damn.

So, they sold us “aging gracefully.”

At one point, that was my mantra: I would age gracefully. What was I thinking?

Apparently, after a certain birthday we’re supposed to put on a flowing linen dress, wander peacefully through the garden and develop strong opinions about hydrangeas.

I tried the dress. I already had opinions about plants. On me, it looked like a potato sack. I sauntered into the garden, tripped over the hem and went down in the mulch.

That may be when I dropped the fantasy of aging gracefully.

I asked my aesthetician, Frances, about getting a little Botox for some lines. (My forehead has a wrinkle that looks like a Harry Potter wizard mark.) She said, “I know the lines you’re talking about. You have beautiful skin. I wouldn’t do any.”

When the person who makes her living off your vanity tells you to save your money, that’s not a sales pitch; it’s a reality check.

Then Christy, my pedicurist, took one look at a toenail and said, “This is beyond me. That’s one for your podiatrist.”

When members of your beauty team start referring you to medical specialists, I think it’s safe to say the graceful-aging experiment has run its course.

So, screw aging gracefully.

I’ve decided to age disgracefully.

Not disgracefully enough to require bail money. Even I have limits.

I understand I require Adult Supervision. Enforcement has shifted to two nieces, a handful of friends, an attorney, and a financial advisor.

Mostly, they’d like me to be responsible and occasionally act my age. They hold their breath when I begin a sentence with, “Now, just remain calm, but…”

Traveling alone to foreign countries is a particular concern.

When I booked Botswana, the Adult Supervision Committee required a security overview. Apparently, at 68 you can travel alone to Africa, but there is paperwork.

Last week I found a trip to Namibia that was almost sold out. I texted my financial advisor, David, who was unavailable, so I made the down payment anyway.

I have decided that’s what unavailable means: proceed.

I recently came home from a photo shoot at two in the morning. I stopped at Gibson’s on the way home.

And I’m trying to organize a group of women my age for a swimsuit photo shoot. On a beach. In full sun. No apologies.

I still look both ways before crossing the street. I take my medications. I even own sensible shoes.

I don’t think sensible shoes require a sensible life.

I plan to slide sideways into the grave saying, “Wow. What a ride.”

I don’t want people standing around at my funeral saying, “She aged so gracefully.”

Good Lord. What a waste of a perfectly good eulogy.

I want somebody in the back to start laughing and say, “Do you remember the time when Mary…”

And somebody else to answer:

“Which time?”