Finally seeing the awful truth about aging in the mirror
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