We all get old; it’s a troublesome side effect of being born.  I was reminded of my own mortality today, when I opened my email and looked at my Livingsocial deal of the day. Instead of the usual “parasailing with laser beams attached to your forehead” or “sushi making classes” offered at a deep discount, Livingsocial was hawking 20 units of Botox.  I have to confess, I was more than slightly interested in this deal, until I remembered that I’m a big fan of facial expressions. 

Although I mostly use my facial expressions to communicate happiness and/or confusion, they can also be used to display feelings of distress and panic.  Facial expressions can save your life.   If we’re being honest here, and I think we’re comfortable enough with each other to tell the truth; one of the sole reasons I watch the “Today Show” is because I am convinced that one morning I am going to be able to observe as Kathie Lee Gifford chokes to death on a strawberry in her mimosa, because all of the muscles in her face, that don’t work her mouth, have been chemically disabled.  I want to see Hoda segue her way into Al Roker and the weather report, while trying to animated her newly deceased co-host a la “Weekend at Bernie’s”.

My boyfriend, who is 4 years my senior, takes great pride in the fact that he has made it nearly all the way to 40 without the need of a shampoo supplemented with Rogaine.  He and I really should come up for better terms to introduce one another as.  At over 6 foot tall and looking every bit like a linebacker on the Giants second string line-up, there is nothing boyish about him.  “Manfriend” just isn’t something I can get down with saying and we aren’t evolved enough to use the term “Partner”.  We’re just going have to wait until something better comes along.

He is very secure in his follicular abilities, and becomes incensed every time someone suggests that he may color his hair.  He doesn’t. I have threatened to leave him should I ever find an empty bottle of “Just for Men” in his garbage.  It’s not that I am a proponent of growing old gracefully; I’m just trying to prevent myself from, in 20 years or so, being seen with a man whose shiny black locks are the same color as his fashionable, Velcro assisted, orthopedic shoes. There is nothing graceful about that.

I am at a point in my life, where I can still function socially with people under the age of 25 without really having to worry about my age being detected.  I listen to these “hipsters” or whatever Yahoo News tells me these Fedora wearing twits should be called today, talk about people they perceive as being old.  Often times cringing at the phrase “She’s was like really old, you know…like 35?”when they describe some interaction with anyone who is not charmed by their sense of entitlement or super cool fashion sense.  I often times will work an obscure line from a Nirvana song into whatever point I’m trying to make, just to watch the vacancy sign pop up in their eyes and amuse myself. 

I hypothesize, that if the great Kurt Cobain, leader of all things awesome from my generation had survived his brush with heroin; he too, would have gone the way of Madonna and now be on late night talk shows pushing his second literary accomplishment- an illustrated book about birds (for those of you who may be reading this and not of my specific age group, that last line…was the obscure Nirvana song reference).

Through Facebook, I have watched as even the most insane of the friends from my youth, who paid strangers to use their faces as pincushions and probably experience a great deal of technical difficulties when sneezing, due to the excessive amount of holes in their nose, become homogenized versions of themselves.  Even the guy that has the bulls-eye tattoo on the back of his head and used to insist that everyone call him “Hoover”; now drives a minivan and named his daughters after deceased American Presidents of varying levels of popularity. I see pictures of him and little Kennedy and Madison having a princess tea party. Smiling, I think back to the days when he used his mouth and nose almost exclusively to ingest illegal, mind altering, substances of many different varieties.  

I am trying desperately to hold on to my youth.  I am not looking forward to the day when I turn on the television and see a female sex symbol of my generation trying to sell me yogurt that regulates my digestive system. But, I’m sure the day is coming where Pamela Anderson uses her great thespian abilities to appear concerned about whether or not I take a regularly scheduled dump.

Yesterday, I was asked to present my I.D. at a gas station to purchase lottery tickets.  I was momentarily excited, until I realized that while a pulse is a must have, eyesight is probably not a factor in getting hired as the attendant at my local Texaco. I thanked the young woman behind the glass who was wearing mint green metallic eye-shadow from lid to brow and acrylic nails so long she could moonlight as a Velociraptor for briefly making me feel young, anyway.   

I know the days of buying pants, not because of the way they fit, but because they have an elastic waist, is just around the corner.  I will someday soon be wearing lipstick on my teeth, as well as the lower portion of my face and will probably utter the words “Look, Honey. It says here, we get a free appetizer with the purchase of any one entrée. Let go to the Red Lobster tonight after bingo” as I look through the lenses of my zebra print reading glasses. But I warn you, I am going to fight it with every fiber I possess within my being.  If you see me out in 10 years, embarrassing myself in too- tight, age inappropriate sequined clothing, I’d like to ask you to be gentle. Your day will come soon enough, whippersnapper.