Love this post and how beautifully you write about vulnerability and attentiveness to what matters and brings joy.
I also want to assure you that no one is staring at your neck. It is my fervent belief that those you encounter are taken in by your eyes, which I’ve always known to be sparkling with merriment and mischief.
And then there’s your wonderful Duchenne smile, which lights up your whole face, and the mood of everyone around you.
I sometimes stand in front of the bathroom mirror and instead of practicing your much more compassionate mirror meditation, I am gently pulling back the lower half of my face, pleased to see those marionette lines “disappear” and then when I let my face relax into its natural, decidedly older-looking state, I am feeling both a tiny pang of loss, that is also—miraculously—infused with a dose of acceptance. Must be those mirror meditations paying off!
And to be completely honest, there’s one more thing that keeps me from contemplating surgery. Instead of saying it’s fear, I’d rather call it a reality check.
Some decades ago I was in an Upper East Side hospital for a minor procedure. As I was recovering in my semi-private room, my new roommate entered, escorted by an entourage of doctors and nurses. This patient’s face and head were swathed in bandages. My first thought (admittedly unkind) was that she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.
Turns out she was the second wife of a famous author and his wedding anniversary gift to her was a face lift. Any time she needed to use the restroom she walked by my bed pulling a portable IV with a plastic bag that caught the blood draining from her face. (Apologies for the gory details, but this is what is sometimes endured in the pursuit of what our culture thinks of as “beauty.”)
My heart went out to her as she moaned throughout the night as a team of nurses applied ice packs and tended to her needs. The next morning her doctors arrived and greeted her with a cheery “How are we today?”
I’ll never forget her reply: “If WE had known how WE were going to feel, WE would never have gone through this!” The doctors chuckled and then one said, “That’s what they all say.” Enough said!
Dear Val, my maternal grandmother was beloved by many. She was loved by her colleagues...worked until she was 80. Had many friends around the world with whom she would visit and always kept up a busy letter writing practice. And she had a very, very crepey neck😘I have inherited my Mother's crepey neck as she inherited her Mother's neck. I have looked in the mirror and tugged back the skin, thinking yes, that does look better. Then in my next breath I remember how loved my Grandmother was.... no one cared about her old-looking neck. She was fun, and laughed at everyone's jokes. She was a happy person people loved to have around. My aim these days at 67 is to be happy, not to look younger! Thanks for all your really wonderful columns, sign me Crepey, but Happy Deborah, xx
Thank you for sharing the existential journey (mindfuck) of encountering your profile. I have all of these thoughts routinely--a tiny, physical issue will spiral into a monumental question of how I've lived my whole life. "Have I made every decision out of fear?" is a frequently traveled mental rut for me, too.
I had my first forehead injection last week after writing an essay one year ago on how I would NEVER do such a thing. But my resistance to it had become a huge weight itself--better just to pop that bubble with a syringe, if you will. Now, I feel unburdened and I think that improves my appearance just as much as the Botox did. So... whatever choices we make to "tend" to our bodies really should be, as you say, acts that reveal the spirit. And perhaps, relieve the mind as well.
I want to say how delightful and inspiring it is to see you address this same topic week after week with fresh insights each time. I am so grateful for these essays. Thank you, Val. 🧡
this is happening to everyone, to all of us- why isn't there more written about this , much less beautiful & compassionate writing? maybe i'm not looking in the right places. i lol'ed @ pungent mortality.
It's easier with a beard, but I shave mine off regularly because I always wanted to look like Lincoln as I aged. Such a handsome ugly man. That is one of the contradictions of age. Having just turned 86, and still writing, working on a difficult book and writing poems because I need to know what I really think and have to know how much remains to be known, what it would be like, for example, if my two dogs could have talked, and how many more troubles have to be lived with, my neck, it turns out, has hardly sagged. Probably because I haven't smiled enough. So don't worry, Val. Your inner beauty remains visible, and that's what really counts with old people. It's their souls. Their compassion. Even their passion, whatever that may be. It also has helped that I hit 84 and decided to lose 60 pounds, which I did. I'm still a big person, but much thinner, with a much flatter stomach. I have also given up drinking except for an occasional glass of wine.
This is a great post. Vulnerability is indeed very hard, very uncomfortable. But allowing yourself vulnerability is the key to riches you won't attain any other way. One of my readers coined the phrase "vulnerability is punk AF" in response to me writing about vulnerability a while back, and I used it as the title to a subsequent post because I think it's so true. It *is* punk AF. It's hardcore. It's not for sissies. It's avoided by legions. But it's the only way if you ever hope to experience the deepest joys life has to offer.
On a more purely practical level, I hate my neck too, haha! I always worried I'd get my mother's "chicken neck", and I certainly did. As well as several other facial indignities. We were just visiting my daughter in Toronto and she hosted a soirée for us and invited her best pals. All young, beautiful dancers—I felt very aware of my age and my face. But I did notice that they of course couldn't care less what I look like—why would they? I'm the only one who cares about my neck. I'm happiest when I can forget about it.
The straight up honesty of your response to looking in the mirror did my heart good. I’m thankful for your writing, listening and seeing what’s real.
Had we not been raised to hope that youth would last, this aging thing would be ok, right? It needs to be ok. The sum of our experiences is left on our faces and necks as well as our memories. I hope we can honor those experiences and travel more rather than have surgery.
Love this post and how beautifully you write about vulnerability and attentiveness to what matters and brings joy.
I also want to assure you that no one is staring at your neck. It is my fervent belief that those you encounter are taken in by your eyes, which I’ve always known to be sparkling with merriment and mischief.
And then there’s your wonderful Duchenne smile, which lights up your whole face, and the mood of everyone around you.
I sometimes stand in front of the bathroom mirror and instead of practicing your much more compassionate mirror meditation, I am gently pulling back the lower half of my face, pleased to see those marionette lines “disappear” and then when I let my face relax into its natural, decidedly older-looking state, I am feeling both a tiny pang of loss, that is also—miraculously—infused with a dose of acceptance. Must be those mirror meditations paying off!
And to be completely honest, there’s one more thing that keeps me from contemplating surgery. Instead of saying it’s fear, I’d rather call it a reality check.
Some decades ago I was in an Upper East Side hospital for a minor procedure. As I was recovering in my semi-private room, my new roommate entered, escorted by an entourage of doctors and nurses. This patient’s face and head were swathed in bandages. My first thought (admittedly unkind) was that she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.
Turns out she was the second wife of a famous author and his wedding anniversary gift to her was a face lift. Any time she needed to use the restroom she walked by my bed pulling a portable IV with a plastic bag that caught the blood draining from her face. (Apologies for the gory details, but this is what is sometimes endured in the pursuit of what our culture thinks of as “beauty.”)
My heart went out to her as she moaned throughout the night as a team of nurses applied ice packs and tended to her needs. The next morning her doctors arrived and greeted her with a cheery “How are we today?”
I’ll never forget her reply: “If WE had known how WE were going to feel, WE would never have gone through this!” The doctors chuckled and then one said, “That’s what they all say.” Enough said!
Dear Val, my maternal grandmother was beloved by many. She was loved by her colleagues...worked until she was 80. Had many friends around the world with whom she would visit and always kept up a busy letter writing practice. And she had a very, very crepey neck😘I have inherited my Mother's crepey neck as she inherited her Mother's neck. I have looked in the mirror and tugged back the skin, thinking yes, that does look better. Then in my next breath I remember how loved my Grandmother was.... no one cared about her old-looking neck. She was fun, and laughed at everyone's jokes. She was a happy person people loved to have around. My aim these days at 67 is to be happy, not to look younger! Thanks for all your really wonderful columns, sign me Crepey, but Happy Deborah, xx
So interesting-The less I look in the mirror the better I feel - do my makeup and that’s it! As always you speak truth 👍🏻
Thank you for sharing the existential journey (mindfuck) of encountering your profile. I have all of these thoughts routinely--a tiny, physical issue will spiral into a monumental question of how I've lived my whole life. "Have I made every decision out of fear?" is a frequently traveled mental rut for me, too.
I had my first forehead injection last week after writing an essay one year ago on how I would NEVER do such a thing. But my resistance to it had become a huge weight itself--better just to pop that bubble with a syringe, if you will. Now, I feel unburdened and I think that improves my appearance just as much as the Botox did. So... whatever choices we make to "tend" to our bodies really should be, as you say, acts that reveal the spirit. And perhaps, relieve the mind as well.
I want to say how delightful and inspiring it is to see you address this same topic week after week with fresh insights each time. I am so grateful for these essays. Thank you, Val. 🧡
this is happening to everyone, to all of us- why isn't there more written about this , much less beautiful & compassionate writing? maybe i'm not looking in the right places. i lol'ed @ pungent mortality.
as always, thank you Val.
It's easier with a beard, but I shave mine off regularly because I always wanted to look like Lincoln as I aged. Such a handsome ugly man. That is one of the contradictions of age. Having just turned 86, and still writing, working on a difficult book and writing poems because I need to know what I really think and have to know how much remains to be known, what it would be like, for example, if my two dogs could have talked, and how many more troubles have to be lived with, my neck, it turns out, has hardly sagged. Probably because I haven't smiled enough. So don't worry, Val. Your inner beauty remains visible, and that's what really counts with old people. It's their souls. Their compassion. Even their passion, whatever that may be. It also has helped that I hit 84 and decided to lose 60 pounds, which I did. I'm still a big person, but much thinner, with a much flatter stomach. I have also given up drinking except for an occasional glass of wine.
This is a great post. Vulnerability is indeed very hard, very uncomfortable. But allowing yourself vulnerability is the key to riches you won't attain any other way. One of my readers coined the phrase "vulnerability is punk AF" in response to me writing about vulnerability a while back, and I used it as the title to a subsequent post because I think it's so true. It *is* punk AF. It's hardcore. It's not for sissies. It's avoided by legions. But it's the only way if you ever hope to experience the deepest joys life has to offer.
On a more purely practical level, I hate my neck too, haha! I always worried I'd get my mother's "chicken neck", and I certainly did. As well as several other facial indignities. We were just visiting my daughter in Toronto and she hosted a soirée for us and invited her best pals. All young, beautiful dancers—I felt very aware of my age and my face. But I did notice that they of course couldn't care less what I look like—why would they? I'm the only one who cares about my neck. I'm happiest when I can forget about it.
The straight up honesty of your response to looking in the mirror did my heart good. I’m thankful for your writing, listening and seeing what’s real.
Had we not been raised to hope that youth would last, this aging thing would be ok, right? It needs to be ok. The sum of our experiences is left on our faces and necks as well as our memories. I hope we can honor those experiences and travel more rather than have surgery.
Yes, is the answer to your musing. It is always good to know we are not alone. :)
- Hello once again, dear Val.
Very great article! Especially, the handling of attentiveness and vulnerability.
I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving!
Thank you for sharing this ❤️.