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Quarter Life Crisis
2005
I recently had a birthday. I’m not going to tell you which one because I’m still deliberating over whether or not I’m going to start lying about my age. A sage girlfriend of mine recently told me that if you’re smart, you start lying when you’re still young and that way nobody suspects when you’re in your 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s. By the time you get to your 70’s and 80’s, of course, everything changes and age becomes a thing to brag about again, just like when you’re a kid. But I’ll tell you that I’m now officially in my late 20’s, vaguely speaking, and the big 3-0 is starting to loom in the foreseeable future. But I’m not getting alot of sympathy from friends when I tell them that I’m having a mid-life crisis. Nowadays, 30 is still considered to be young. I might even say 30 is considered post-pubescent and not even quite adult (especially for men, who can work puberty basically until they’re 35 now using the excuse ‘how can I commit to a relationship or get tied down to a real job when I’m not even old enough to run for president yet?’). But really, 30 only seems young because generally we’re all living so much longer these days. A few hundred years ago, an unmarried 30-year-old woman would basically have been considered a lost cause. If your were 30 years old in the 1500s and weren’t knitting booties for grandchildren, wearing your hair in buns, or talking wistfully about your younger years, you might as well have been put out to pasture. You certainly weren’t worrying about whether or not you should start lying about your age. And I’m sure you weren’t leaning into your bathroom mirror every night and counting your gray hairs (I recently found a stunning 6!!), worrying that your pores were seeming more pronounced when looking in a magnified mirror under very harsh light, wondering if your eyebrows are actually getting bushy or that you might have a touch of rosacia on your cheeks. (Don’t assume I’m confessing anything here). This society has made us nuts, and mostly I’m talking about myself here. I sat in a chair this morning having my hair treated for the second time in two weeks. Yes, I decided to have those six grays covered up. And the first time, my hair came out too dark. My own mother, who was visiting, took one look at me and might as well have had two words written across her forehead in neon lights: DYE JOB. “Go back”, she said. “You look like Elvira”. Ooh, cuts like a knife.
So now it’s official. Never again will I be “normal” when I buy my hair products. I will forever be “dry or chemically-treated”. What a branding. Botox and chin lifts are right around the corner.
I was once a bit on a high horse about age defiance. I thought “having work done” was some sort of character flaw. I could spot a dye job or a rug a mile away. Over the years I sat with perhaps dozens of fellow self righteously young friends and played “real or fake” while sipping Starbucks in Brentwood and watching all the Barbies and Kens get out of their Jags and Rovers and tap dance in for their soy half-caffs. “Lips?” my friends would say. “Fake”, I would answer. “Eyes?” they would say. “Two lifts, half a dozen visits to the Botox doc, and twice daily applications of Chanel anti-aging cream”. I was the master of the slam. The master of “it’ll never be me”. Course, I was 19 at the time. Things are different now.
But now that I’m late 20-something it’s only a matter of time. I used to think that it was all about pride and self esteem. If one is intelligent enough, if one is confident enough, if one has a handle on who they are on the inside; then they don’t need all that artificial handy-work, surgical craftsmanship, and silly putty appendages. But here I am; and I’m just like all the rest of them. Confidence, good self-esteem, moral dignity and all. I’ll be darned if one gray hair surfaces on my head ever again. Anyone who dare call me “Ma’am” is going to face some pretty nasty consequences. And as soon as the first wrinkle appears, don’t think you won’t find me on the chopping block. Reality has set in. Down with the moral arrogance of youth! 30 is approaching!
So let this column serve as a giant apology to all those fellow over-the-hill types I once placed my juvenile judgment upon. I am now a fellow “dry, chemically-treated” type. I never thought getting a dye job would be such a spiritual awakening for me. One bottle of Wella for dark hair later, I am practically a Buddhist. Give me your tired, your hungry, your toupeed, your hair transplanted, your lip-injected. We’re all in it together, baby. It is really such a small percentage of earthly life we are “au natural”. And for each of us, there comes a time when it is our turn to dye.
3/22/2007
thanks to the column todays eagle, i can again enjoy your comments.
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