My beloved friend Christi was getting groceries and got carded for her wine. With great glee, she reached into her wallet to produce her ID, confirming her over 40 status.
“Nevermind,” said the clerk. “I don’t need it.”
“What?” she asked, clearly miffed. “Why?”
“Well,” the clerk stumbled. “I mean, once you smiled, I could tell…” He realized his misstep and handed her the receipt without making eye contact.
Christi’s husband, like any wise man, threw the last bag into the cart and hauled ass out to the car, wanting to avoid the entire scene.
She called me immediately afterwards, in a foul mood. “WTF? The checkout dude gets to comment on my crow’s-feet? He thought I was borderline 21 until I smiled?”
“There’s only one thing you can do,” I replied somberly.
“What’s that? Obviously imminent surrender to Botox is my only recourse.”
“No,” I said. “Stop smiling.”
“Not a problem,” she said, sighing. “I have nothing to smile about anymore anyway.”
This phone call cracked me up, as Christi tends to do on a regular basis. We have been friends since third grade, so we have been through every metamorphosis together from puberty through pregnancy, postpartum easing into middle age. We discuss all changes in great detail, with sly humor, usually with wine — whether in person or over the phone (she lives in California).
We crossed over into our 40s one year apart, and she was very happy to beckon me across the threshold. I should probably mention that Christi is 5’10”, lean and long and struts her stuff in a wickedly tight pair of jeans (with heels, aw yeah) better than anyone in their 20s or 30s. So we grumble with some perspective and a grain of salt (to go with our skinny-agave-margarita on the rocks).
We have decided to be brutally honest in chronicling our symptoms, so that we can amuse ourselves while our bodies melt and our faces scrunch, and so that our daughters will not be surprised when they find themselves in the same predicament. We do not want them to be caught unaware and unarmed (without a sense of humor, of course).
1. What gives with the folded line across the backs of our legs in jeans? When did this happen and is it the current style of jeans or is it my thighs? This line needs an official name.
2. Crow’s-feet. Ugh. They first winked at me around age 28, then settled in for keeps at 35. Why are they cute on guys? Guys look smiley. I just look crinkly (and buy every new cream they advertise).
3. Facelifts. Almost everyone who gets one looks related. Remind me of this when I want one later. Besides, a tightly yanked face looks funny with veiny, spotted hands and as far as I know no one does hand-lifts.
4. Botox. I’ve tried this and I like it, but it kind of scares me to think about injecting a disease into my face, especially one that has the power to explode aluminum cans. Besides, my brother calls Botox the female equivalent of a comb-over. (Like we don’t know you’re bald = Like we don’t know you’re old.)
5. The cumulative effect of red wine and coffee on teeth. Bleach or keep your mouth shut.
6. Actually saying, “When I was your age…” at any time, to any one. Realizing that college students now look like children.
7. Hair mascara. I don’t have gray yet, but it’s coming for me. My brunette friends are constantly checking their parts.
8. Two-day hangover penalty for overindulgence.
9. Earlobes that can only tolerate lightweight earrings in order to avoid vertical line. Damn the giant earrings of the ‘80s.
10. Germ phobia. I used to eat popcorn at bars. Now I Purell myself when someone coughs.
11. The cozy little pooge that has settled onto the backside of my previously bony hips. Scientists will eventually prove the correlation to lattes and there will be a class action suit against Starbucks.
12. Spider veins. And I have arachnophobia.
13. Hail damage on rear bumper. I keep buying Lululemon thinking the expensive power of its cuteness will somehow make everything okay.
14. Clothing considerations and the word “appropriate” entering my vernacular. Just because it comes in your size does not mean you can or should wear it.
15. The sheer power of humor and good friends. Nothing is hotter than a woman with confidence and wit. The best trajectory is the graph that charts age with “I don’t have to give a damn about that anymore.” They meet at 40, FYI, and the vector goes on and on.