Fi­nally see­ing the aw­ful truth about ag­ing in the mir­ror

Hawke's Bay Today - - In Dulge -

I’ve been for­tu­nate to have had my sec­ond eye op­er­a­tion, and as one reader said, “I’m back, bright-eyed and bushy tailed”.

Well I don’t know about the bushy tail, but I cer­tainly have a dif­fer­ent view on the world now. Af­ter my first eye op­er­a­tion I went on a mad, fren­zied, house-clean­ing ram­page. This time it’s been more of an ae­rial as­sault on cob­webs. I can fi­nally see them glint­ing in the sun, adorned with dust, so they’ve been get­ting a quick flick with the duster.

Know­ing what was com­ing on op­er­a­tion day, I was a lit­tle bit ap­pre­hen­sive be­cause nee­dles aren’t my thing. Last time my dodgy veins sent the anaes­thetist as­sis­tant run­ning, with me hot and sweaty and on the verge of faint­ing — af­ter a fair bit of prod­ding from a nee­dle. This time the anaes­thetist had it all un­der con­trol, even if she did tell a bit of a lie. When I asked for “more please,” of the lo­cal anaes­thetic, she agreed, see­ing I’d had taken quite a de­cent slug in the vein last time.

“Af­ter all you’re young and fit,” she said. So yes, she did lie — a bit. I’m not very fit.

This time the slug of anaes­thetic should have put me out for a bit, but it didn’t, even the anaes­thetist couldn’t be­lieve it. Just goes to prove I’m young and strong, yeah right.

Cob­webs aside, my big­gest shock with the dress­ings off, came when I looked in the mir­ror. The gen­tle wrin­kles I thought I had on my face, had turned into huge crevasses. The anaes­thetist was wrong, I’m not young, I’m old, with the face to prove it. Heavens, it was a shock. No longer would I be able to use what hubby calls “polly filler,” I’ll have re­sort to a con­crete mixer load to fill these cracks and crevasses. My face looks like an earth­quake map, with hun­dreds of fis­sures and mas­sive fault lines. It would take a huge EQC pay­out to get this lot fixed.

My make-up rou­tine usu­ally in­cludes putting on some primer — well, old faces need to look good be­fore fac­ing the world. But af­ter my fresh look in the mir­ror I reckon I’m wast­ing my time. Bet­ter in­stead to slap on some foun­da­tion to fill those cracks and leave the primer to the painters. Trou­ble is, when I put my glasses on, those once-fine lines be­come yawn­ing chasms and foun­da­tion does them no good at all.

I’ll have to change my face cream too be­cause de­spite all the ad­ver­tis­ing, it’s not plump­ing my skin up to look like a teenager and the gen­tle glow is from me scrub­bing like hell, hop­ing to rub those lines out.

I’ve heard it said that old peo­ple are a work of art — re­fer­ring to faces — but I’d pre­fer not to be liv­ing in a master­piece with aged, crack­ing paint.

From hay­mak­ing to news­mak­ing

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