David Sedaris spoke at my daughter’s graduation from Oberlin College. The speech, which I found online in its entirety (you’re welcome) was funny, as you’d expect, but it also delivered some unexpected pathos. He said, “You might not realize it this morning, but thirty years from now you’ll pull out pictures of yourself taken on this day and think, ‘Why did nobody tell me I was so attractive?’” Who knew that was a universal problem?
I remember myself as a tubby child and an overweight teenager. Family photos, however, belie that with evidence that I was a normal, right-sized kid. Sadly, there is no evidence to counteract my memories of my dad telling my petite and attractive mom, “Don’t eat that,” or, “Do you really need that?” I internalized messages that weren’t even addressed to me.
When I hit forty, though, and was still carrying around the ‘baby weight’ from my two-year old, there was no disputing that a diet was in order. I took the logical first step and cut my hair; that was good for a couple of pounds. Then the real work began. Thirty-five pounds later, I looked better than I ever had and life was good for another ten years or so—before nature began to interfere.
As you age, you change in ways you have no control over. Ask anyone who had 20/20 vision what happened when they hit forty. Most will tell you that ‘all of a sudden’ they needed glasses. Hair turns gray. Mine started with a Cruella de Vil silver streak that I thought was pretty hip when I was in my early thirties. But it didn’t stop there; over time, my color went from brunette to salt-and-pepper. It’s thinning now, too.
Are you old enough to remember Magda from the movie There’s Something About Mary? I’m not a sun-worshiper like she was, but there are other similarities. If you’re a woman, I know you’re familiar with the test where you try to hold a pencil under your breast. If you can’t, they’re not sagging yet. Lucky you. I could probably hold onto a desk’s worth of office supplies.
Another indignity is that your weight rearranges. You don’t necessarily weigh more, but your clothes don’t fit. For some, gravity brings on the dreaded pear shape. Me? My ass has all but disappeared. While I wouldn’t say it was my pride and joy, it was an integral part of the hour-glass figure I used to have. Now, I’m pretty much a straight line from the back of my neck to my heel, and I’m forever pulling up my pants.
Nora Ephron said all this much better than I ever could in her book, I Feel Bad About My Neck. So, if you feel that life is treating you unfairly, let David Sedaris and Nora Ephron put things back in perspective. Laughing is good for you. Or you can create your own blog and complain. It won’t bring back your ass, but you’ll feel better.
So that explains it: I have your ass. Always wondered where it came from.
Thanks for the Sedaris link.
In an epic display of procrastination, I kept the email that brought this post in November (largely due to the intriguing title) and finally read it today. Glad I did! Agree with your general sentiment, but one advantage of going gray, at least for me, is that when I go to the beach, I don’t look as ape-like as I used to. It’s harder to see all that hair when it’s no longer black.
That’s a great spin, Gary!