WAR AT FORTY/ Beauty Reals

a coming of middle-age story

Suddenly my jeans were busting open in unmentionable places, and my ass had somehow converged with another ass to create plumper, less-appealing version of itself; unwanted pounds showed up at my back door-damn things didn't even knock. At thirty-nine, I was the unsuspecting soldier in the Battle of the Bulge. Yet like so many before me, I was less than prepared for war. 

I'd whine to my husband, "I’m fat! My ass is huge!"

He'd flatly reply, "If you’re unhappy, work out."

His monotone responses infuriated me, but at least they'd showed he'd cared. So I listened, albeit begrudgingly, and soon, those unwanted pounds fled like unwelcome house guests. Not to mention, the out-of-nowhere diagnosis of gluten and dairy allergy diminished the worry of ever having a huge ass again. 

By forty, I'd trimmed my body, chopped off the ponytail I’d worn since preschool and embraced a new chapter. 

Then the page turned.

I woke to a pimply, puss-filled T-Zone. My once luminous complexion had joined forces with the sensitive skin of a thirteen-year-old. 

In Junior High, while many of my peers trekked across the bridge of breakouts, I was on the journey less traveled: clear, glowing skin. But now, I'd been derailed and out of utter panic, ran to Michael Jackson, my dermatologist.

Jackson prescribed a boatload of ointments, a horrid oral medication and worse, waiting. It was the antitheses of my usual routine: wash, moisturize and go. This new regimen horrified me. Yet looking at the woman in the mirror, I had no choice but to heed his advice.

Meanwhile, in product hell, instinct led me to Doctor Bush, my gynecologist. I had to know whether my lady parts were rotting. I blame this on my growing reliance on fashion magazines, which seemed to underscore the harrowing effects of growing older. And in turn, had led me to believe the female body-for lack of better terms-most certainly loosens in your forties. Worst of all, all, the same magazines featured women my age styled in multi-printed slip dresses adorned with chunky jewelry; one blind step away from Mrs. Roper’s infamous muumuus. Though I suppose the colorful clothing was meant to divert attention away from the expected wrinkles and age spots, however ridiculous. Still, the mere act of dressing any women in an oversized housecoat is just wrong. Yet as I ponder the thought as a grown woman, that ridiculousness was likely the brain-child of some twenty-year-old editor hell-bent on ending a mature woman's sartorial splendor while perpetrating their own misconceptions of what it means to age gracefully.
But I digress.

To my delight, I left Bush’s office with my lady parts in good standing, but my complexion was still on a steady decline. So I called Jackson's office for a follow-up visit, and the appointment did not come quick. Until then, I hid underneath a brown leather hat, dashed in and out of my daughters’ school in a blur, while avoiding interaction with any and everyone in my path. I figured the quicker I moved, the less opportunity for anyone to focus on my skin. Yet adding to the spectacle of myself, I employed flesh colored band-aids to mask my blistery eruptions, abandoned my favorite grocery store in Red Hook and even began a Shades of Grey relationship with a grocer in Cobble Hill-allowing him to speak to me only after I'd spoken to him first. 

At home, I flopped into dark corners and isolated myself from my entire family. My husband consoled me as I lamented my facial issues like a sullen teenager might regret her spoiled life. I'd displayed unruly behavior worthy of the isolation I'd forced upon myself as I grew more despondent with each passing day.

***

Back at Michael Jackson’s, I'd learn I'd developed cystic acne, and that stress played a crucial role in its onset. But if the delayed threats of adolescence weren’t enough, Jackson said,

“It’s natural to experience creature discomforts at forty.”

"I’m well aware that I’m forty!" is what I wanted to say, but instead, I sat slumped and defeated. 

Throughout the years, I'd heard that turning forty would be an uphill battle. Yet I hadn't taken that to mean full-on war. 

As an antidote to my bad skin and shallow depression, Jackson armed me with an arsenal of pimple-busting defenses along with the understanding that, this new chapter would require willpower and plenty of it.

So I'm dealing. 

But as I await the next page, I imagine the headlight nipples from my 20s waiting there to replace the directionless nipples of my 40s, which after nursing three children, are at odds on whether to be optimists or pessimists.

Truth is: turning forty isn’t SO awful. I’ve ditched my leather cap and resumed a respectful relationship with my Red Hook grocer. Plus, my cystic acne has subsided, and I no longer have a need for so many band-aids. Things are looking up, though I wish the same were true for my nipples.