At 43, I should be the poster child for the anti-aging industry, but I’ve learned to dodge its more dubious claims. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that in my early 30s, I fell for it. (Hello, luxurious skincare!) While I’ve never dabbled in “cosmetic enhancements” and don’t plan to, my collection of natural beauty remedies is impressive.
My dedicated routine involves gently massaging argan oil serum into my forehead and cheeks morning and night. I whip up a DIY body oil using rose hip, avocado, and jojoba, complete with a secret blend of essential oils. I even craft my own artisanal raw honey masks.
Instead of opting for botulinum toxin injections, I rely on Frownies—a beauty tip passed down from my great-grandmother, who had radiant skin well into her 80s. I learned from the best—not just about beauty hacks but also about how the pursuit of youth can sometimes mask deeper issues.
My grandmother, a stunning and glamorous woman, had a vanity area that matched her elegance. She would gaze into a grand beveled mirror behind her marble vanity, and I often ran my fingers over her collection of crystal bottles arranged artfully on an antique silver tray. One day, as she was getting ready, a look of concern crossed her face.
“Do you think I need a facelift?” she asked me. At just 10 years old, I was clueless about such things, but she explained it to me. After a brief moment of shock, I assured her she was beautiful and maybe a little nuts.
Turning Back Time
In her youth, my grandmother was often mistaken for an actress—a career she secretly craved. By the time she hit 50, she had begun her age-defying act, subtracting a year for every birthday. By the time she left us far too soon in 1990 due to gallstone complications, her stated age was a youthful 26. It became a family joke, though it wasn’t always humorous for her.
When I was around 5, she affectionately called my hands “paws.” We were a family full of animals, always surrounded by Pomeranians and rescued cats, so it was a loving nickname. My hands were small, delicate, and fair-skinned, with long, slender fingers. She would often examine them and kiss my knuckles, saying they resembled hers.
As an adult, especially as a freelance writer without a dishwasher, my hands have endured quite a bit of wear and tear. I’ve spent countless hours at outdoor cafes in Manhattan, typing away while my hands braved the elements. (It took me ages to realize they need sunscreen too!)
Because my “paws” are always in view while I work, I’m often reminded of their condition. Even before they began to show signs of aging, the need for a manicure always made me uneasy. I’d rush to the salon mid-deadline just to avoid the sight of chipped polish and ragged cuticles.
A Legacy of Vanity, with a Dash of Feminism
People often mistake me for someone in her early 30s. I’m not sure if it’s genetics or the argan oil, but it’s a compliment that both delights and unsettles me. I minored in Women’s Studies and even authored a book titled Coping With the Beauty Myth: A Guide For Real Girls. Give me a platform, and I could lecture on the history of the male gaze. I guess this is my own “Doctor, Heal Thyself” moment.
When people assume I’m a decade younger, I don’t consider lying like my grandmother did. Not out of moral superiority, but because I enjoy the reaction when I declare, “Nope, I’m really 43!” I take delight in their shocked faces. It’s my legacy of vanity mixed with a sprinkle of feminism.
Yet, the delicate “paws” of my youth, once translucent and blue-veined, now reveal my true age. Someone once suggested that I hide my hands by keeping my fists balled during first dates to smooth out the wrinkles.
For my Nanny and Granny (and my mother, who is alive and well, albeit a bit more rational than the rest of us), I refuse to hide my hands. I’ll raise them proudly and let everyone see them in all their crepe-y glory. But just so you know, you won’t be able to pry the Frownies from my hands until I’m cold and dead!
This article was originally published on July 12, 2015.
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Summary
Embracing aging can be a challenge, but it’s also a journey filled with lessons and family legacies. While I appreciate the occasional compliments about looking younger, I choose to celebrate my age and the beauty that comes with it. My hands tell my story, and I’m proud to show them off—even if they do have a few more wrinkles than they used to.